


Always the Last Place You Look (Or: Merliniana Jones and the Homogay Crusade)

by thalialunacy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Big Bang Challenge, Coming Out, Community: paperlegends, F/M, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:45:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, destiny is all about bad timing.</p><p>When Merlin woke up this morning, he expected to go on about his life as a 20-something curse-blocked (don't ask) barista with a cat named Eomer (don't judge) and a tendency to get distracted by his own imagination. He certainly didn't expect to end the day engaged to the woman of his dreams.</p><p>Probably because he's never spoken to her. She also happens to be unconscious.</p><p>But she's suddenly his and Merlin finds himself stumbling over exes, ethics, and the fact that she comes as part of a package deal, along with an overbearing father, a group of friends-in-law that should have their own sitcom… and a brother named Arthur, who takes all of Merlin's assumptions about his life and turns them onto their heads.</p><p>Sometimes, destiny is also about misdirection. </p><p>(AKA: <i>While You Were Sleeping</i>, Merlin-style.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Genre** : Semi-magical modern AU. Rom-com. Movie fusion. Coming out story. Pile of puppies and rainbows.  
>  **Pairings** : Arthur/Merlin ♥ . There's also Merlin/Morgana (of a fashion), Leon/Elena, Gwen/Lance, past Arthur/Gwen, past Arthur/Gwaine, past Morgana/Morgause, Gwaine/Morgana.  
>  **Warnings** : Mild violence, hospital talk, cigarette smoking, alcohol consumption, coming-out angst/internalised homophobia.

"A family is a unit composed not only of children but of men, women, an occasional animal, and the common cold." ~Ogden Nash

Merlin knows, now that he’s grown, that he didn't have the most lavish childhood. It would be considered by some to have been nearly spartan, in fact. Small flat, no yard, parents gone more than around, school full of children who thought him strange.

But to him, it had been perfect. He'd had his parents, as best they could manage, and he'd had his books. His books that meant more to him than any other thing ever could, he had thought. Because his books gave him gorgeous, glorious stories, gave him worlds and lifetimes and brilliant powers. They sent his imagination on spins and leaps, turning into words that he scribbled onto paper and murmured to himself with a note of love and longing for adventure.

And then there were the stories he didn’t have to remind himself weren’t real; he always liked those very much: The ones the ladies at the shops told him. The ones the couples in the pubs told, though not to him, and sometimes not even through words. He was a world-class eavesdropper by age five. His mum joked about his ears having something to do with it, and Merlin thought she was right, until the first time he got teased for them, had a bully tweak one and call him Fievel. That was his first taste of how a blessing could be a curse.

By the by, though, and unsurprisingly, he'd liked the stories his mother told most of all. He'd ask for them every night, and no matter what kind of day she'd had, she'd always do her best. Her stories had been grand, and practical, and thorough, and magical.

And he'd certainly had his favourite. “Tell me again,” he’d say, as she was tucking him into bed, the rain pattering down outside, “how you knew you loved my dad.”

She’d smile, and turn to switch the light off. “I knew I loved your father,” she’d say, smoothing back his hair, “the day that he gave me the world.”

The globe (the world in question), clearly purchased at a car boot sale for probably about ten pence, was old and yellow then, so you can imagine its state now. But it sits on the hand-me-down coffee table in the legitimately spartan flat Merlin occupies by himself, his mother a newly-fading memory. 

It’s his single greatest treasure these days. Outside of reading other people's books, and the occasional flight of fancy, his stories—and his family—are long gone.

Merlin has met the woman of his dreams, but doesn’t know her name. Let’s start there.

He's met a woman, well, seen her, really, is all, and he doesn’t know her name yet, but he’s positive he’s going to marry her. He finds perfection in her dark hair, her keen green eyes, her creamy skin. And his hope for their eventual shared future never ceases, no matter what.

It's the kind of earnest good faith that the world sees far too rarely.

Their interactions can all be described thus:

She stops in, into the little shop where he works, every single day. She stops in and she buys a pastry, which she can’t possibly be eating because her figure is flawless— But then again, Merlin figures, maybe she’s just that blessed. Hell, she probably does the blessing. A proper goddess, like.

Anyway, she buys a pastry and though she never quite looks at him, and she’s most definitely never spoken to him, he’s completely certain that she is the woman for him. Sometimes she sits, pulls out her laptop and an intimidating book or two, and he’s reassured of this because she's clearly the most brilliant woman he’s (n)ever met, on all levels. He can feel it, just feel it. 

His goddess.

He’s tempted to write the story. He’s tempted, nearly every day since he first saw her, to take out his notebook and write down exactly how he and this woman will live happily ever after. Because if he does, and if he reads the words out loud—that's the trick, you see—like he had dozens of times when he was a child, then whatever he writes would, probably, in some way or another, come true.

That's his true blessing, and truly his curse. It’s just a thing he could always do. And indeed had done, without compunction, throughout his early childhood, because it wasn't like he'd written stories of world wars or abusive step-parents, now, was it? He'd written stories of parents getting better jobs where they were home more, of pets finding their way back home and cars going on adventures. He had been a child.

Turned out, though, that even the most innocent of meddlings could have dire consequences, something Merlin had learned first-hand one day: He had been scribbling words onto page during a boring section of his lessons, only to be interrupted by his tutor saying his mother was in the headmaster's office and Merlin should take his bag with him because he wouldn't be coming back that day. Or the next. The tutor's face had looked summarily ashen, and Merlin had known, in his gut, that his life would never be the same.

It had taken a few hours before his mother would, or could, explain it to him properly, and a few days before he had truly understood. It had been an accident, she'd said as she stroked his hair and cried. An accident involving a lorry on a route it wasn't used to, and a driver who had got lost, and it all meant that Merlin's father wouldn't be coming home again.

Merlin had nodded, and cried, and held his mother when she couldn't seem to stop crying, but something was wiggling in the back of his mind. Something awful.

Then he had startled awake on his third day home from school. He'd grabbed at his bag and pawed through it until he'd found his notebook— His notebook in which he'd scribbled a story about— about a lorry driver, with ice cream in the back, headed towards Merlin's school—

It wasn't a stretch, for the mind of a child. For a grown-up, it would've involved a lot of disbelief and research and self-exploration. But Merlin had no trouble making the leap to the obvious and inescapable fact that somehow, he had caused this awful thing to happen.

At that moment, he had understood, with the heavy weight of the knowledge of children, that playing with fate was a gift he had but could not use. His small stories, his tiny wanderings, were like throwing stones into a pond. He'd never know how far the ripples went. And he couldn't possibly live without his mother. If his stories took his whole family, he'd be lost.

He'd thrown his notebooks in the curb side bin that very night. Torn them up first, tears eventually blinding him until he didn't really know what he was doing. Just that it had to be done.

And he had thought it'd be enough.

His mother had died anyway, but not till he was nearly twenty-two, and he figured that was only fair. Fate’s way of balancing things out.

Making him pay it back.

Fifteen years after the death of his father, Merlin is convinced he’s still paying this unfortunate debt he owes the fates for messing about with them. He lives in a flat by himself, no family, a few friends that aren't close, a woman he pines after from afar, and a cat. A cat that is incredibly unhelpful in every way but sitting on whichever book it is Merlin's trying to read.

Well, and it's nice to pretend he has something to talk to while at home, instead of just talking to himself. Which is really what he's been doing, and he knows it.

He just tries not to dwell.

But don't worry, change is on its way. A big change. And it will drag him, kicking and screaming, into his destiny. 


	2. 1

"I don't care about whose DNA has recombined with whose. When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching - they are your family." ~ Jim Butcher

“No,” he says flatly.

“Merlin—”

“I won’t do it, Jenny.”

“But Merlin—”

“I’m not working Christmas.”

Merlin’s well-meaning but often callous manager grips his arms and turns him to face her. He has to look down, which should give him an advantage, right, but her heart-shaped face and delightfully plump frame emanate a sternness he doesn't dare cross.

Most of the time.

Today, though, and about this: “I’m not! I just won’t do it.”

“Merlin.” Her voice is softer this time. Softness wrapped around steel. “I can't rely on anyone else. You’re the only one who can run this shop alone, and you’re—“

She purses her lips together, clearly reluctant to finish the sentence. Merlin shrugs out of her grip and reaches to straighten a perfectly straight stack of cups. “The only one without family, I know, I know.” He rubs his eyes, hating the pity he can positively _feel_ in her gaze, even while he knows it’s coming from a good place. “This is rubbish, Jenny.”

“I know, Merlin, and I can’t make you do it.”

Merlin huffs. “That’s right, you can’t.”

“I can’t.”

She’s looking at him warily, expectantly. He rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Fine. I’ll work your bloody stupid holiday.”

Not like he’d had any plans, anyway.

So for the next few days, Merlin imagines that at Christmas, he'll see _her_ , his perfect goddess will be a perfect holiday goddess, and something will happen. She’ll come in, smile at him, wish him Happy Christmas, and hand him something incredible. Something perfect, like his mum's globe.

And then he’ll have a wonderful story to tell the perfect children they will surely have shortly thereafter.

He’s certain of it.

And he’s almost correct. Except not really at all.

On Christmas day, he bounces around the shop like a slightly uncoordinated spring. He's the only one working, there are about two-point-five customers every two hours, and plus he's jittery: he had stayed up late with a novel (not his, mind) and the compensatory espresso just serves to make him twitchy because he doesn't habitually partake. (The irony of his working in a coffee shop is not lost on him, but a job's a job and when your sole talent is making your own stories come somewhat-haphazardly true, you learn to settle.)

But she doesn't show up at her usual time, his goddess, and his heart begins to sink back down from where it's been dancing all up and around his oesophagus. Eventually, the afternoon finds him sitting on his stool, staring out of the window, and thinking melancholic thoughts.

Why _should_ she be here on Christmas day, after all? She should be with family, with her parents or–God forbid–her husband and–God for _bid_ —her children.

Merlin slumps even further, absently twirling the milk thermometer and imagining just how gorgeous her children would be, were they to actually exist— Then the bell above the shop's front door jingles.

Merlin's heart sings even before he can see her face.

She's dressed smartly, like she is every other day, in a muted suit that probably cost more than Merlin makes in a year. She's bloody gorgeous, her dark hair up and her makeup merely emphasizing, not overpowering, her piercing eyes.

He's already got her drink mostly made by the time she's at the counter, which is part of the ritual, and it's always the same amount of cash, which he may or may not normally clutch in his hand long after she's gone from sight.

But today, today it really is Christmas, because, with God as his witness, she smiles at him, and does something else she’s never done before– She hands him—

…a tip.

A tip.

Merlin stares down it. It's not the world, he'll admit, but it's a fine start. He feels his heart kicking in his chest. He feels his lungs filling up with glorious air. He feels the joyous weight of fate gathering around him. He feels like the God damn King of _Prussia_.

But he's apparently just the King of Being Unable to Speak Properly. Her “Merry Christmas!” rings in his ears as she turns away, but he has only nodded his head jerkily, like a puppet on a string. His words have _abandoned_ him, those fickle bastards. Perhaps in payback, he understands, but that doesn't make it _right_.

As she walks away and out the door, his heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that he can’t think of anything else. He’s contemplating which receptacle, sink or half-full espresso trough, would be best for the sick he’s sure is about to come up, when he finally registers the commotion outside.

And commotion it is. As it generally is when a person gets mugged, which Merlin can clearly see through the front windows is what's happening, and with a shout he's running towards the door.

But the gentlemen who'd thought his goddess would be an easy target had clearly not understood whom they were assaulting. By the time Merlin gets out the door, she's kicked one of them in the shin, kneed the other in the groin, and finally got so annoyed she's actually _thrown_ her bag at them.

"Go on, then, take my bloody purse! You use one single piece of financial information in there and I'll have a pack of lawyers after you faster than you can say—"

But she's interrupted, and Merlin watches, horrified, as one of the tossers snarls, curses, and shoves her against the wall before they both take off. She crumples like a windsock.

"Oh my god, oh my _god_ ," Merlin chants mindlessly as he dashes the last few metres to her side. "Please please please."

And he's not even sure what he wants. He just knows he wants a better beginning than this.

Turns out she’s not a goddess after all, because she's reacted very badly to getting shoved into a wall: she's fainted. Merlin’s there just in time to catch her before her head hits the ground, and feels like a grand prince in a fairytale—

Until he sees the blood.

"Oh god oh fuck _oh god_ —" He reacts instinctively, clutching her more closely to him as he assesses the situation. This must jostle her, because for a moment, for the smallest, smallest of moments, her eyes are open, and bright, and looking at him.

Merlin's heart just about tears out of his chest. He blinks the sting away from his eyes and smiles down at her. "Hello," he says, his voice rough even to his own ears.

And for a moment, he swears she almost smiles.

Then her eyes flutter shut again, and there's a blare from a car horn, and Merlin realizes he's crouched awkwardly in the middle of the street with an unconscious, bleeding, gorgeous, probably exceedingly rich woman in his technically unwelcome embrace.

Oh _God_.

He closes his eyes, and wishes for a pen and paper harder than he has in years.

They don't appear, of course, but, as luck would have it, a taxi does. Merlin gratefully deposits her inside and breathlessly instructs the driver to just "Get to the nearest hospital, please for the love of God _quickly_!"

The driver looks askance, then suspicious, and Merlin rolls his eyes, desperate. "She's not dying, and I didn't do this, and you can ring the police when we get there if you wish but I should like to think you'd want her bleeding onto your upholstery for as short a time as possible. So _please_ let's _go!_ "

To which the cabbie grumbles, but acquiesces.

It's the longest ride of Merlin's _life_.

And then, once they get to A&E, things flash by so fast, Merlin feels as though he's in a film. A really, really unpleasant film in which the sad, gangly protagonist has just realized he doesn't know his dream woman's _name_.

He's an idiot.

And he's so flustered when they ask, "Are you family?" that he can't do anything but shake his head. He's distracted, see: He can see her being wheeled out behind the inquiring intake nurse, and she's so pale, and thin, and the lights are so harsh and he can't help but think of his dad, his mum, all the times he's stared at someone he loved in a hospital bed.

He doesn't realize he's trembling until he feels a hand on his elbow.

"Here, love," a kind, if weary, voice says as the hand guides him to a seat along the wall. "There now. Sit for a moment." There's an older woman in nurse's clothing leaning over him, not intrusively, just kindly. "She's going to be fine."

He blinks up at her. His eyes hurt and he doesn't know why. "She is?"

"Best of the best, here. And you got her here just in time." She pats him, and it's so maternal it just makes everything hurt worse. But she doesn't mean it to, he knows she doesn't.

So he blinks again. Clears his throat. "Yeah, alright."

She tsks, not unkindly. "I'll just go and get you a nice cuppa, then, sound good? Well, it's not that nice, but it's the best we've got and anything would do you good right now, you look a fright."

He manages a smile at that, and as she walks away he feels a little ashamed of himself. He doesn't even _know_ the woman he just brought in here, after all, and here he is, acting like they're at the very least bosom friends.

He looks wistfully at the door through which his felled goddess had disappeared. Bosom friends, that would've been nice. He supposes. But…

"I was meant to marry that girl," he breathes to himself, to the bustling hospital air around him, to her.

To the woman whose name he doesn't even know.

And, little does he realize, to one very nice older lady who's just got back with a cup of tea.

The tea does the trick, stereotypes be damned. Merlin can finally focus, with enough blinking. Can finally think, though sludgily. Enough to decide he's going to wait at A&E a little longer, at least. The shop can stay closed. He needs to see this through, for himself. Just in case. In case of what, he's not sure, but the more tries not to think about Prince Charming kisses and fate, the heavier the thoughts sit in his mind.

He looks around to distract himself. The place is decorated for the season, which for some reason jars him. He'd basically forgotten, he supposes, because he had to work and then, oh yeah, rush a bleeding woman to hospital.

It occurs to him what a fantastic story it'll make for the grandchildren. And he smiles at the thought. He crosses his arms and leans back in the chair, finally beginning to feel warm again.

The tea-bearing nurse—Alice, of course her name is Alice—ushers him into a room an hour later, explaining, probably in tiny terms, what's wrong with his goddess, but Merlin barely hears. He can't take his eyes off the still figure in the bed.

His chest feels like a tangle of lungs and heart, sewn together tenuously by a web of anxiety.

Even with her eyes closed, her face bruised, and her chin slumped into her chest, she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

He breathes in and out, watching her chest rise and fall. It's the only movement. For a moment, it's deathly silent.

Then, out of bloody _nowhere_ , there's a booming voice. "What is this!" says a tall older man with the most incredibly overbearing presence Merlin has ever witnessed. "What's going on here! I demand an answer!"

There are no question marks anywhere near those sentences, and Merlin can only stare as a small river of people parts around him on their way to the bed, their exclamations of worry falling over Merlin like a wave and pushing him back to the corner of the room. All he can do is fade thankfully into the background and watch as they cluster around their fallen… comrade? Sibling? Hard to tell; Merlin squints, tries to gauge their characters and part in all this, because, as he keeps being reminded, _he knows nothing about this woman_.

And it's a strange little crowd. “Oh my Christ she’s so _pale_ ,” a pale blonde woman says as she flails about, her long hair practically crackling with fright and nervous energy. Merlin, for a moment, pictures it standing straight out, like in cartoons when someone gets electrocuted.

Then she reaches out fitfully to her right, obviously searching for something, and with ease of practice and love a man reaches a hand over for her to catch onto. He has curly sandy brown hair that falls smartly about his temples, and is very bearded and serious looking. He gathers her gently to his side, leaning down to brush his lips against her hair. "That's just the lighting in here, darling," he says firmly. She sniffs, and nods, and unburies her face from his chest just enough for Merlin to see the tears in her eyes.

"And you know Morgana loathes the sunlight," another woman's voice says shakily, trying for levity, and Merlin searches out its owner—a lovely girl with brown skin and dark, curly hair, eyes like a doe. Her hands are clasped together, wringing almost, as if she wants to envelope the whole room in a hug. In fact, she radiates such magnificent caring energy, Merlin has no trouble picturing her arms reaching around them all, enveloping them all in it.

He feels his heart start to unclench.

So fascinated is he by this raggle-taggle group that he almost misses the little but staggeringly important bit of information he's just been given.

_Morgana._

Her name is Morgana.

"And who the hell are you?"

Merlin focuses in on the sharp-eyed black man who just questioned him, and realises he must've said his last out loud.

Well. Dandy. The little cavalry's all turned to him, suddenly, and Merlin very much feels like a deer about to be run over by an incredibly attractive group of lorries. And as he's berating himself for that flimsy simile, the man repeats the question, sounding even more piqued.

"Erm—" Merlin has no idea, literally no idea how to answer. "Well, you see, I—she—"

He's saved, though. By the tea-bringing nurse, although she's sadly sans tea this time. "Oh, leave the poor boy alone," she interrupts, gliding into the room and tucking her arm around Merlin's elbow. "He's a hero. He saved the woman he loves."

Merlin feels his ears heating up. Because who doesn't want their mad crush to be divulged to a room full of strangers? "Well, that's very kind of you, but—"

"The woman he loves?" The booming voice is back, and Merlin nearly flinches. He feels like he's been caught writing 'Mr Harford smells of wee' on the chalkboard in school. Again. "Nonsense."

"No nonsense. He's her fiancé."

Merlin chokes.

All the words crash together in his brain and fall to the ground in pieces. The group around him, though, have plenty of words. Which they all say at once.

"Her _what?_ " squeaks the blonde girl.

"She's _engaged_?" says the sharp-eyed man.

"To this skinny piece of awkward in a bottle?" says a new voice, coming from a man Merlin hadn't noticed before, which is strange because he's put together like a model, hair in his face and artful scruff on his cheeks. His eyes are a little bloodshot, though, Merlin notices. Shadowed.

"Gwaine, don't be unkind," admonishes the hugging girl. The Gwaine man defers to her, muttering a completely insincere apology, but his expression stays guarded.

"Wait a minute," the bearded man is saying, "I thought she was mugged?"

The nurse nods, beaming. "This lad found her injured and brought her here."

All eyes swing to him, and as this part is actually true, he can only nod awkwardly. He scrambles for a segue into, 'Yes, but that doesn't mean engagement in this country, last time I checked—' but is interrupted yet again.

"Head wounds like this," the nurse continues, "the first hour is very critical. If he hadn't, she certainly wouldn't be on the road to recovery like she is now. She's very lucky she's with such a wonderful young man." And the tenor of the room has shifted in favour of her ridiculous mistake, the group cherishing the hope Merlin represents to them— Merlin can feel it, so he starts to speak again, _tries_ to speak again, but—

"Oh, Morgana!" The blonde is staring at Merlin, her eyes huge and watery. "I mean, I know we don't see her all that often, but I would've thought she'd at least—"

The booming voice ends it all. "—tell her _father!_ "

Ah, so that explains who the scary bloke is.

Merlin can practically see the smoke coming from said bloke's nostrils, and doesn't think he's imagining the red in his eyes. "Listen," he starts, "I'm sorry, but I should really let you know—"

But it's too late, because he's cut off by the confirmation of his theory on the huggy girl, because she has enveloped him in her arms somehow and it's so—it's so—

It's been so long since he's been shown affection, at all. By anyone. She holds him _so_ tightly. He can feel her tears on his collarbone.

And something inside of him bursts open.

The doctor arrives then, just in time for Merlin to slip out after the nurse while the rest of the party is distracted by the explanation he's already heard—coma, brain waves, prognosis looking good, blah blah blah.

He grabs the nurse's arm, probably not gently. "Why on _earth_ did you say that?"

She looks down at his hand, then up at his face, utterly bewildered and not a little annoyed. "Say what?"

He winces and loosens his grip. "Sorry, it's just—I'm not her fiancé!"

"Well! Then why did you say that you were?"

"When?! When did I say that?"

"When you were waiting!" She gestures back towards the scene of the tea. "I heard you!"

Merlin thinks, can practically hear his brain ticking, until— "Oh, bloody hell, I—" He flings his hand out in an exasperated gesture. "I was talking to myself!"

The nurse blinks, then cuffs him lightly in the arm. "Well, next time, tell yourself you're single, and end the conversation!"

He glares. "Helpful."

"I'm not trying to be helpful."

"Isn't it in your job description? Especially when you—" Oh god her glare of death. Merlin tucks his metaphorical tail between his metaphorical legs. "—absolutely didn't cause this in the first place and have no obligation to help me at all?"

She purses her lips at him, but her face softens just enough. "All I can advise is that you've got to tell them."

The truth of it is stark. "I know, I know, and I will, I just—" He finds he has one hand clutching at his middle. "She held me so tightly. And her—Morgana's—father, he's like the wrath of God himself, and I'm man enough to admit that he scares me, and the rest of them— they were so—" He throws his hands up. "Bloody buggering _hell_."

She pats him on the arm. "You'll do what's right. I know you will."

Merlin sighs. "Yeah, all right, just—let me back in there, I guess."

"Excuse me?" a sonorous male voice interrupts. Merlin turns to find another handsome man (what is it with this hospital?), this one even with the bonus of being exotic-looking and in—no joke—a fireman's kit. He's also giving them a look of earnest inquiry. "I'm looking for Morgana Pendragon's room, I was told she's here?"

Alice looks from him to Merlin, then has a hand on Merlin's elbow again, and is smiling like she knows something. "Of course, dear. This young man can show you the way."

Merlin gapes. "I—" Alice subtly but not gently pinches him, and on the soft flesh inside his arm, too. "Oi! I mean—I will! Yes of course, I can show you."

"Alright…" The man looks at him, clearly a bit curious, but follows as Merlin leads them down the hall and into Morgana's room. "I'm Lance," he says, kindly but somehow also very formally.

"Oh!" And here it is, here's Merlin's shining chance— "Well, glad to meet you, despite the circumstances. I'm—"

"Lance! Darling!" The hugging woman—he really needs to find out her name—sounds full of relief, and she comes right over and gives the fireman—Lance, apparently—a kiss on the cheek that is chaste but speaks volumes. Merlin is somehow not surprised.

"Gwen, this is—"

"Morgana's fiancé, we know."

"Morgana's what?" Lance exclaims, charmingly nonplussed.

Merlin girds his loins, opens his mouth— but then doesn't have time to answer because Gwen—Gwen! What a perfect name—has turned to him, and set a soft hand on his arm. "Only I just realised I don't know your name! I'm so ashamed. We really shouldn't've overwhelmed you earlier, and I apologise. It's just that we never see her, and I think with the holiday and all—" She blinks up at him. "She was with you for Christmas?"

Merlin feels his jaw tighten as he contemplates truth and white lies and psychological damage— "Well, yes, but—"

"Oh, that's lovely," the blonde sighs from where she's suddenly at his other side, clutching his arm and sounding a bit like a swooning maiden. Merlin tenses; he just doesn't think he can handle any more fainting women today. "We always wanted her to find someone."

She's so clearly sincere, her eyes wide and wet, that Merlin's insides feel like they're being squeezed. "Yes. Well. The thing is—"

And at that moment, as luck would have it, his mobile rings.

He pulls it out of his pocket, and the name on the screen makes him wince. "Oh, bollocks."

Gwen's immediately concerned, of course she is, and Merlin wants to hug _her_. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah, it's just – it's my boss. I was the only one at the shop today, and I just sort of –left it—when all this—" He waves at Morgana's still figure helplessly. "—happened."

"Oh, dear."

"Yeah, and she's rather—stern. Erm, I've got to go? I'm really sorry to leave everyone like this, I'd love to stay and explain everything to you, but—"

"Why don't you come over for dinner tomorrow?" Lance says, and Merlin's never even thought to apply the word 'gallant' to a real live human being before, but it's all he can think whenever Lance speaks.

"Oh, yes!" Gwen exclaims. "I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner!" She clutches at Merlin's hands. "You really must. We're doing Christmas then, because Lance and Morgana both had to work today—although Morgana probably wouldn't've come anyway, she never does—" She winces. "Not that I can speak ill of the—Oh god, she's not dead, she's just—"

"Gwen." Merlin squeezes her hand. Apparently it's not possible to resist this woman. "I'd love to, really, but I've got to work."

"Oh, nonsense," Gwaine cuts in. "They can't make you work Christmas _and_ Boxing Day, now, can they?"

Merlin tries to smile charmingly. "Well, as a favour, and especially after today…"

"Nonsense. We'll tell her, if you like. We'll tell her that her most dedicated employee…" Gwaine cocks his head. "What did you say your name was, again?"

"I didn't," Merlin responds, not a little wryly.

"Ah."

Gwen squeezes his hand, her face pleading for his forgiveness. "God, I'm so sorry." She gestures at the rest of the group. "We're usually not this boorish, I swear."

Merlin shakes his head with a smile, a genuine smile, because they're just all so lovely. He's surprised to find he almost doesn't want to leave.

Excepting the whole perpetuating-a-blatant-misunderstanding-involving-large-life-decisions thing.

His phone pings again. He groans and stuffs it back in his pocket, then backs towards the door. "It's been lovely to meet you all. I'll try to make it tomorrow." It's not quite a lie, he reasons; he'll ask, although Jenny will surely say no. At the door, he gives a probably pathetic little wave. "And my name—it's Merlin."

Then he runs for his life.

As he's waiting for the lift, he sees an orderly coming his direction, clearly intending to speak to him. "Come on, come on," he murmurs to the lift. But it doesn't hear him, apparently, because the kid gets to him and shoves a box at him.

"Here, these are your wife's things. Morgana Pendragon?"

Merlin wants to curse a blue streak. Or stomp his foot. Or both. "She's not my _wife_."

The kid doesn't seem too concerned. "Alright, your… fiancée, then."

And he's off before Merlin can argue, and he's kind of too tired to at the moment, anyway. The lift doors open, and he's nearly through them, when—

"You're Morgana's fiancé?"

Merlin does swear, this time, but keeps it somewhat under his breath. He bodily puts himself between the lift doors, using the box as leverage, and turns to find himself being assessed by a new blonde woman, this one wearing a preponderance of eyeliner and surveying him narrowly.

"Yes?" he says.

"I'm Morgause, Morgana's colleague at Pendragon Industries?"

Merlin inclines his chin in what he hopes is polite acquiescence. "Right."

Morgause, however, is not dim. Much to Merlin's chagrin. "She didn't tell you about me? That's strange."

"Oh?" It's pretty much a squeak at this point. Merlin's not proud of it. But she's looking at him like she's thinking of how many ways she knows to kill him, and he's already having a rather difficult day.

"Yes, very strange," she continues, still eyeing him warily. "Also very strange she's engaged to you, seeing as she was sleeping with me just a few months ago."

The only reason Merlin's able to keep hold of the box is the lift doors squeezing them together. "Beg pardon?"

"No need. I would daresay your relationship isn't the healthiest if you didn't know." She looks vaguely satisfied at this, and Merlin is a little affronted on Morgana's behalf. Clearly breaking things off with this woman had been a good idea on her part. "Not telling her father, or that nasty brother of hers, I understand, but a fiancé?"

"Ah… Yes… " Merlin edges sideways, further into the lift, trying to put together any sort of sentence that will get him the hell out of this hospital. "Well, it all happened very quickly, love at first sight and all that. We have a whole lifetime to learn each other's secrets, yeah?"

She is clearly not convinced. "I suppose."

"Right, lift's here!" He gets all the way in, and has never been so happy to shout through closing doors in his life. "Nice to have met you!"

As the lift descends, he stares down at the box in his arms. It seems to house the normal things, like a purse and a handkerchief and a mobile. It's thrilling, in a way, to have her most personal of things. But he feels like a thief.

Like a really, really bad thief.

He leans his head against the lift door and curses his fate.

Hours later, even once back at home with his books and his frozen dinners, he's still cursing. At least internally. And very colourfully indeed.

He tries to sleep, though, he really does. Settles in with an utterly useless novel, his cat pushing at his hand so he has to practically contort himself to turn pages, and gives it his best go.

Finally, at around one, he heaves the covers aside, shoves on jeans and a hoodie, and makes his way to the hospital. It costs him an arm and a leg, but once he's there, once he walks into her room and sees her, pale and serene, he knows it was well worth it.

He stands around awkwardly for a moment, staring at the surely uncomfortable plastic chair beside the bed and knowing he doesn't deserve to sit in it. That it's supposed to be for family.

Not that he even knows what that means any more.

To hell with it, he thinks. So he sits. He stares at Morgana—Morgana!—for a while, until the silence starts to get to him. Until the words start to press upon him.

"So," he starts, completely mortified to be talking to a person in a coma, but unable to do much of anything else. "I bet you're wondering what I'm doing here," he says wryly.

And suddenly, with the truth of that, it all comes tumbling out. "My name is Merlin, right? Merlin Emrys and I honestly have no idea how this all happened. I work at the coffee shop you frequent, Mellow Tone. And that's mostly what I do. I work. A lot." He thinks a moment. "I mean, not that I'm complaining. I have a flat. A cat named Eomer, and please don't judge me for that, because he was a gift. I never have to share a bathroom. I have sole possession of the remote control."

Her face remains impassive. "Alright, that wasn't funny anyway." He exhales. "And that's the thing. I can't complain but the fact remains that I've never—I've never had somebody I could laugh with."

He hates the way words sound out loud. The fingers of his left hand curl, clutching around the ghost of a pen.

"Although I'm sure you wouldn't know about that. You've got your friends. Whom I've met, by the way. They're lovely. They probably laugh a ton. Not that they did today, of course, though, sorry," he amends, reaching out unthinkingly to touch her, then freezing. "Sorry." He winces. He's acting like a tit and the day's not even started yet.

"And you probably have a boyfriend stashed somewhere," he says offhandedly. He thinks of mad Morgause. "Girlfriend? Who knows."

He takes in the lines on her face, ones he's never been able to see before, around her eyes and mouth; tiny ones but there nonetheless. "I just hope that they make you laugh, whoever they are. That you saw them, and you knew. That it's something you can tell your grandchildren about, someday."

And he can picture it, absolutely: her as an old woman, those lines deeper and that raven hair gone elegantly grey, in a rocking chair with a blanket and a cup of tea, telling a gaggle of grandchildren a story by the fire.

But he sees himself nowhere in this picture.

He rubs a hand across his face. He's just so tired. "At least, that's what I hope. Because this— Well, this is bloody ridiculous, is what this is. And I hope you've never experienced it. I hope that you didn't fall in love with someone before even learning their name. That you didn't wonder every day if you'd ever get to wake up with anybody in your bed again."

A corner of his mouth quirks up, completely ironically. "That you've never spent the night confusing a woman in a coma."

The words fall out of his mouth and dissipate into the sterile air.

But not before reaching the ears of the fireman standing just outside the door.


	3. 2

"There's an awful lot of blood around that water is thicker than." ~Mignon McLaughlin

"Merlin!"

Merlin jerks awake at the sound of Gwen's concerned exclamation. He blinks up at her, and when he can finally focus, it's to the picture of the whole crew from the day before, although thankfully sans the scary-as-fuck father. Merlin blinks more, then looks around, dazed and confused, to find he's still in Morgana's hospital room.

"Did you sleep here?" the blonde with the crackling hair asks, one hand on his shoulder and the other over her heart.

Did he? It seems like he just got there, but he feels the ache in his neck and jaw and realises he must've nodded off. "A little, yeah."

"You're like me," Gwaine says on his way around the bed, a grin on his face. "I could always sleep anywhere."

"And believe me, he has," the sharp-eyed man—Christ, Merlin doesn't even know these people's _names_ —adds.

Gwaine looks a little torn between punching him and turning it into a boast. In the end, he just shrugs and grins unrepentantly. "It's true." Merlin can't help but shake his head with a smile.

"How's Morgana?" Gwen says, turning to the bed.

"She—" Merlin has to clear the sleep and amusement from his throat. "She looks good. She has a little more colour today."

"Oh!" she agrees, reaching out a hand towards Morgana's cheek. "She has a little more colour!"

"She'd be very unhappy to know that," the kind bearded man says wryly to Merlin. Merlin lets out a laugh.

Then it occurs to him to look at the time on his phone. "Oh, balls!"

Gwaine cocks an eyebrow at him. "You don't say?"

Merlin shoots him a look. "I have to go, I'm late, oh God she's liable to kill me—" He glances around at the group, and gives Morgana one last look. "Look, take care, everyone—"

"Oh, Merlin, you _must_ come by this evening," Gwen interrupts earnestly, and she digs around in her purse for a card (honestly, she's like something out of a Regency novel) which she then hands to him. "That's our address. We'll have wine, and a roast, and crackers and everything, it'll be fun I promise."

"Well—" Merlin _really_ has got to get to work, and it's going to take ages on the bus. "I'll try, I'll really try, thanks, but work is—and my boss is—" He trails off, unable to express, oh, pretty much anything.

"I can give you a ride, if you like?" Lance offers, like a mind-reader. "I've got to get to the station, anyway."

Merlin looks over, and his face is open and sincere. He glances at the time again, and tries not to twitch. He doesn't want to impose, but— "Honestly? That would be lovely, if it's not too much of a bother…"

"No bother at all." He leans down to kiss Gwen quickly. "I'll see you tonight, yeah?" She nods, squeezes his hand, and then he's turning to Merlin and they're out the door.

But not before Gwen can get out one last "We'll see you tonight as well, Merlin!"

Lance grins when Merlin winces. "She's pretty persuasive, that one," he say affectionately as they make their way out of Intensive Care.

"So I see."

"You really should come by tonight, though," Lance adds as they get into the lift and descend to the parking garage. "We've all known Morgana for so long."

Merlin watches the floor numbers tick by. "Yeah, it seems so. How did you all meet?"

He's busy stepping out of the lift and doesn't realize his error until Lance sighs. "I'm not surprised she didn't mention us. We've… grown apart, recently." At Merlin's curious look, he adds, "Not all her fault, of course. We've all been busy."

"Life happens," Merlin says agreeably. "But still, there's a story there, I can tell."

Lance chuckles. "Oh, sure, if you want to hear about me pulling on Morgana's pigtails when we were six."

Merlin laughs, too. "Sounds like a right awful story," he says as they approach a very practical-looking car.

"Or there was the time Elyan purposely tripped Gwaine in the middle of the canteen in year seven. Mind your head," he says to Merlin as they climb in. "Or Gwen and Arthur being the most dysfunctional childhood sweethearts in the history of the world."

Even more than figuring out which one is Elyan, this last bit piques Merlin's curiosity, seeing as Gwen and Lance are so obviously made for each other. "Arthur?" he asks as Lance starts the engine and pulls out of the garage.

"Morgana's brother. He's been in to see her but you must've been at home. He works… a lot. You'll meet him tonight at Gwen's."

Merlin refrains from replying with anything about the unlikeliness of that happening, considering the idea of going to Gwen's made him want to throw up a little. "Ah."

They're interrupted by navigation for a few moments as Merlin directs Lance towards the coffee shop, and then there are a few moments of silence. Not awkward, but not entirely comfortable.

Merlin thinks of stories.

"Do you have—family?" Lance asks, his voice quiet but sure.

Merlin shakes his head. "Nah," he says casually; after so long he can almost talk about it. And for some reason, he can very much almost talk about it with Lance. "My dad died when I was in primary school, so it was mostly just me and my mum. Then she got sick, so we moved from Wales for a research treatment program."

"'Research' here having the meaning of 'very expensive,' I'm guessing?"

Merlin smiles, a little wryly. "Yeah, right. I had to quit school and go to work fulltime to pay the bills. And after a few years, she'd had enough research, and she passed away. So now it's just me. And Eomer," he adds belatedly.

"Eomer?" Lance shoots him a look, and Merlin laughs out loud.

"I promise I'm not mad; he's just a cat and I didn't name him."

"Uh-huh. Well, if it makes you feel better, Arthur and Morgana had a cat named Chewie when they were kids."

"No! Really?"

"Really really."

Their laughter fades into a comfortable silence. "You're very lucky," Merlin finally ventures, because it's true. And because it makes a little part of him turn green with envy. "I can tell you all really love each other."

Okay, a large part of him.

Lance half-laughs, but his face is very serious. "I'd say we're beyond that, at this point. I wouldn't let anything happen to any of them, not with my last breath."

Merlin thinks about this, too. Thinks about his parents, and about every day he saw Morgana, and about that tiny hospital room full of people. "Neither would I."

Lance looks over at him. They're at a stoplight, so when it lingers, Merlin tries not to fidget. Wonders if he has something on his face.

Finally, Lance just says, simply, "I believe you wouldn't."

Merlin smiles, relieved, although he's not sure why.

He makes it about an hour into his shift before his head starts to rattle. The guilt, the illicit thrill, the _guilt_. He feels like he's going to pop open at any second.

"Freya," he finally says, trying not to sound desperate.

"Yes," comes from somewhere in front of the baked goods.

He says it before he can think better of it. "I have done something awful."

"And?"

He sighs. "No, really."

Freya, a tiny and delightful brunette who's the closest thing to a sister he's ever had, peers at him over the rows of muffins. "Really really?" Merlin nods, trying not to make what she calls his 'kicked puppy face don't you dare ever make it again' but probably failing.

" _Mer_ lin."

Yup, failing. "Freya."

"Is this an out back sort of situation?"

Merlin looks around the shop furtively. "Yes."

Freya considers him for about half a second, then hollers over her shoulder. "George, you've got the wheel for a few, cheers!"

Then she grabs Merlin's hand and they're tumbling out into the back alley. She holds out two fags and he takes one, even though it'll make him sick to his stomach. He doesn't much care at the moment.

"So," she says after the first drag. "Spill it."

Merlin buries his face in his hands, keeping careful hold of the fag. He pictures the cigarette smoke curling around him like out of a dragon's nose. "Oh god, I don't even know where to start."

"Let's start with a noun."

"I."

"Yes, good."

"I, Merlin."

"Specificity, I like it."

Then he peers through his fingers and it just all spills out at once on a puff of smoke: "I may have accidentally become engaged to a woman in a coma."

Whatever Freya was expecting, it's not that, because she stares at him blankly. "Beg pardon?"

Merlin rushes to explain, his hands moving wildly in the air, little flakes of ash going everywhere. "You remember, the woman—yesterday—God, was it really only yesterday?—she— There was all this commotion at the hospital, and you know how I tend to think out loud, and—all her friends and her dad were there, and this nurse— Oh my god, I—"

"Merlin."

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

"…okay."

"So her nurse and her family—"

"Mostly friends. One father."

"—all think you're engaged to the woman you brought to hospital after she was mugged outside the store."

"Yes."

Freya leans back against the wall, taking a drag. "Well."

"Well what?"

"Well, you have just made my life ten times more interesting by proxy, so thanks for that."

"Oi."

"What?"

"What do I _do?_ "

Freya flicks ash off her fag, contemplating. "Are you ever going to see them again?"

"Well, they expect me to come to their belated Christmas supper tonight…"

"You should."

"Why?"

"So you can get free food."

" _Freya._ "

"So you can _tell them_ , you idiot. Go there, tell them all at once, it'll be like ripping off a plaster."

Merlin drops his cigarette, grinds it out, then kicks at the butt for good measure. "Ugh, I know. You're right."

"Just eat first, before you tell them."

"You are impossible."

"And maybe have some wine. In vino veritas, and all that rot."

"Im _poss_ ible."

Hours of slinging coffee later, Merlin takes back everything nice he's ever said about his ridiculous, pain-in-the-arse, stupidly-named cat.

"Oh, come on," he says, rather loudly, to his empty-seeming flat. "I know you're hungry. Don't be a wanker."

He knows he's being a _bit_ harsh; cats are cats, after all. But as he sits down to his frozen dinner, he's alright with his foul mood. He'd even daresay he's pleased he made it through his shift at work without throwing milk foam at anyone's face. Or curling up into the foetal position and mumbling Radiohead lyrics.

Eventually he hears the tinkling of a collar bell, and his feline companion stalks his way over to the table. "Come on," Merlin cajoles. "It's the good kind. Tips were good today." Merlin pauses, contemplating this. "Ironically."

Eomer sniffs at the food, then deigns to dig in. Merlin pets the cat absently as His Highness eats, trying to focus on the limp tray of human food in front of him.

Trying not to look at the little card stuck under the ancient Disneyland magnet on the fridge.

He stares at his food. Stirs it. Stares at it some more. Wonders if it'd taste better with brown sauce. Or vodka.

A lot of vodka.

He looks up at the fridge.

"Oh, sod it."

He's going to need a second job if he keeps making these spur-of-the-moment cross-town jaunts, he thinks to himself as the cab pulls away and leaves him staring up at an alarmingly posh house in Harrow. Freya's advice is spinning his head, but Merlin can't seem to summon the motivation to pin it down, make it real.

"Quite nice, isn't it?"

Lance's polite voice startles Merlin, and he nearly drops the bottle of wine he's got clutched to his belly. "It is, yeah. I feel like I should go home and change my clothes."

"Nah, mate, don't worry about it. They're all probably already tipsy enough to not care."

Merlin glances at Lance's civilian outfit and clearly-just-washed hair. "You come from work?"

Lance nods. "Most bizarre hours of any job I've ever had."

"Seems like, yeah."

"Wouldn't trade it for the world, though."

"No, you wouldn't. And you shouldn't. It… it suits you."

Lance looks at him, a smile spreading across his face. "Thank you. I take that as a very serious compliment."

Of course he does, Merlin thinks with affection.

The door swings open at that point, and Gwen's face peers out. "Merlin! You came!"

Merlin can feel his cheeks reddening, but he steps up to the house and presents his wine anyway, even gives it a little silly flourish. "I hope my offerings are sufficient?" he joshes, giving his best smile, the one that works on mothers and old ladies.

"Oh, you!" she laughs. "Of course it is." She gets one arm around his back and guides him—okay, pushes him—past her and into the house. He goes, chuckling, and politely ignores her much less platonic greeting for Lance, instead taking in his surroundings. It's quite a nice place, indeed. He wonders what the story is, here.

A boisterous male voice interrupts him. "Go on, off with it."

Merlin raises an eyebrow at Gwaine, who has appeared next to him and is standing with his arms out expectantly. "You think?"

Gwaine just smirks. "Your coat, Merlin. You weren't planning on having dinner in it, were you?"

"Maybe I was," Merlin says back as he starts to take off his coat. "Maybe I have a complex, and your mocking of it constitutes bullying. Are you a bully, Gwaine?" Merlin shrugs out of the coat completely and chucks it at Gwaine's face. Gwaine catches it easily, but they're both laughing.

A loud female laugh interrupts them. "If Gwaine is a bully, then I'm a butterfly." The blonde's smiling face appears, along with the sharp-eyed man's still slightly-suspicious face. She envelops Merlin in a fluttery hug. "My name's Elena, and you are Merlin, and I think we're going to be friends." Merlin's mind forms a picture of her flying off, lavender-coloured wings in the breeze. He smiles into her hair.

After she releases him, the sharp-eyed man shakes his hand firmly. "Elyan," he says, a wry smile on his face. "I promise, that's my actual name."

"It really is," Gwen chimes in as she hangs Lance's coat up beside Merlin's. "Our mum is weird."

"Truth."

"Well, my name _is_ Merlin, isn't it?"

"I dunno, I was hoping that was your stripper name."

"Gwaine!"

But Merlin's laughing. "My mum would love you so much, Gwaine." Then he remembers. "Where's—" He puffs out his chest and mums stomping his feet a little.

They all kind of look at him askance until a laugh bursts out of Gwen. "Oh, Lord, do you mean Uther? Morgana's father?"

Merlin grins sheepishly. "Yeah."

She makes a dismissive face, which sits awkwardly on her features. "We don't—Erm, he doesn't—" She wrings her hands; Merlin wants very badly to take back the question. "I'm sure he's very busy," she finally concludes with a nod. Then she brightens. "But for a second I thought you were talking about Arthur." She blinks at him. "Oh! You haven't met Arthur!"

"Which is funny," Gwaine drops in, "because you're exactly his type."

Merlin almost feels air whistle in his ears, so quickly does his head turn. "Beg pardon?"

Gwaine has the smirkiest of smirks on his face. "No need to beg. He should be here at some point tonight."

"Gwaine. You are impossible." Gwen shoves at him, then gives Merlin an apologetic look. "Sorry about him. You'll get used to it eventually."

Merlin tries to ignore that he's gone red in the face. "S'all right, I grew up with a lad like him."

Elena's bearded man claps him on the shoulder. "You are a brave man, then. My name's Leon, by the way."

"Oh, lovely. Nice to meet you, Leon. I'm Merlin."

Leon chuckles, a warm sound that makes everything a little lighter. "So I've heard. Brave Merlin, now. And a brave man like you deserves to have a drink."

Merlin is only too quick to acquiesce. "Too right," he says, with not a little cheek.

They all laugh, and soon he finds himself stood in the kitchen, a glass of wine in his hand and some cheese and crackers at his elbow, hearing some surprisingly blackmail-worthy stories about the childhood of a woman he's never met.

"Oh my god, do you remember—" Gwen is saying, her wine sloshing a little in her glass as she gesticulates, "—when she and Arthur re-enacted that scene from Star Wars, and Uther about had a fit?"

"About? I swear the man's face was purple."

"I don't understand," Merlin says, though he's already laughing at the idea of Morgana in the Leia hair-do.

"Oh, they wanted to shock him—they were always little shits—so they wrote this whole reduction of the Luke/Leia plotline, right, and presented it to Uther. Who of course has never actually _seen_ Star Wars, so he invited friends and relatives and lord knows who else."

"My mum was even there," Gwaine says, looking like he's enjoying reliving the memory. "It was amazing."

Merlin finally cottons on. "Oh, God, so they—they kissed and everything?"

Gwen nods, a sheepish grin on her face. "They both rinsed with mouthwash about fifty times after, but said it was completely worth it to see the look on Uther's face."

"They must've given him ulcers as children."

There's some throat clearing, and a lot of looking down at wine glasses, and Merlin knows he fucked something up. There's a story here. And it's likely not a pleasant one.

He sets about defusing the bomb he'd unintentionally lit. "It's all right; my mate Will once let a goat into our kitchen, just to see what would happen. Mum forced us to clean it up, of course. I smelled of shit and hay for a week, swear to God, no matter how much I washed."

Surprised, relieved laughter ripples through the room. "You realize you're not helping your homeland's reputation, right?

Merlin laughs. "As if I would ever even attempt it, with English gits such as you."

"Oh, please, you can't even say that without meeting Arthur." Gwen puffs out her chest in a credible imitation of Merlin's imitation earlier. "He's so English he makes me feel like I should check my passport at the door."

"Well, then, we'll be sure to get along famously."

Gwaine snorts. "Absolutely."

A very nice meal later, Gwen makes good on tradition and brings out the crackers. She distributes them with a kiss on the cheek, and winks at Merlin, who is sat by Gwaine. Merlin shakes his head, but he's smiling as he meets Gwaine's twinkling eyes and they pull.

Then Merlin just watches, entranced, as the toys get picked apart, mocked, and thoroughly enjoyed.

Everyone's happy, at peace, and beloved, included Merlin.

He kind of wants to freeze the moment forever.

Hours later, Lance is pouring him onto the sofa, paper crown still somewhat affixed to his head. "Thanks," Merlin mumbles. "Knew you'd be valiant."

Lance chuckles. "Yes, and you're a very pretty princess." He throws a blanket over Merlin's nearly-already-asleep form. "Now go to sleep."

Merlin snorts, and smiles. At least, he thinks he does. "Good night, brave Sir Lancelot."

He doesn't hear Lance's answering murmur. "Good night, mysterious Merlin."

He's awoken, sort of, when the front door creaks open and heavy steps tread inside. The intruder clearly isn't a threat, though, because straight away there are feet on the stairs and Gwaine's pleased voice. "Arthur!"

Merlin's eyes fly open, but thankfully he's facing away from the foyer, so all he sees is sofa cushion. He hears the sound of a manly, enthusiastic hug, though.

"Hullo, friend Arthur!" Gwaine is very bad at whispering. "How was the office?"

The new person—Arthur, right—has the grace to actually keep his voice down, but Merlin still catches every word. "Hello, friend Gwaine. It was dead awful, as usual."

"I can't believe he made you stay so late, on Boxing Day, and what with… everything."

"Yes, well, you know Father."

"I do indeed," Gwaine says, a little unkindly.

Arthur clears his throat; the moment's tired and awkward, even just from the sofa. "So how was dinner?"

"It was cracking. You're sorry you missed it."

"'Course I am." There's a pause, and Merlin is hardly even breathing but the attention gets drawn to him anyway.

"Who's that, then?" Arthur queries, his voice a little closer, a little quieter.

"Oh," Gwaine says airily, "that's Merlin."

"Who's Merlin?"

"Morgana's fiancé?"

The creak of a floorboard sounds really quite loud in the darkness. "No, he's not."

Merlin's heart stops dead in his chest.

"What do you mean? Have you met him?"

There's a pause. The floorboard creaks back. "No."

"Well, there you go. You must've got it wrong."

"I suppose."

"He's a doll. You'll love him."

"Yeah?"

"And even if you don't, we all already do, so you're out of luck." Merlin hears a sound like Gwaine thumping Arthur on the back, and their voices start to fade as they head up the stairs. "Are you going to stay the night?"

"Was planning on it, yeah. Can I kip with you?"

"Only if you drink something with me first."

"I dunno, last time I woke up in a tutu…"

"No tutus this time, I promise."

Merlin falls back asleep as soon as they're gone.

His drunken dreams find him in a tutu. And not just in a tutu, but… covered in glitter. There's glitter on his eyelashes (he can see it, it's a very weird sensation) and on his cheekbones, and on his arms and knees (knees!) and it's kind of itchy and he's certain it's some form of punishment— When a gunshot goes off.

Dream-Merlin flinches and looks around wildly, blinking away glitter but seeing only a ground covered in grass and runners' asphalt. He stares at the lines stretching out in front of him as far as the eye can see.

Then suddenly, as you do in dreams, Merlin knows exactly where he is. He's at the starting line of a marathon.

In a tutu.

Figures.

His neck wakes him up the next morning. His neck, the light through the window, and— "Aarrghh."

He clutches at his head.

Wine. He knows better than to get pissed on wine. What an idiot.

He pulls out his mobile; it's unhelpfully run out of battery. He looks out the window into the grey sky, but it just tells him it could be anywhere between seven am and… well, seven pm. Winter in London, as it is.

Ah, bugger it, he thinks, and starts to gather up his things. He'll just use the kitchen phone to call a cab, then sneak out. Send a nice basket of flowers or something of the sort, to make up for it. Maybe he'll just put 'sorry I'm a drunkard; here I only thought I was a great dirty liar' in the card and consider it good.

He's almost made it to the door, when—

"Good morning."

The voice is behind him, and only vaguely familiar.

Arthur, then.

He sucks in a preparatory breath, as if going to the gallows, which, okay, is dramatic, but he's hung over and this Arthur seems like a bit of a dick, if the stories he heard last night are to be believed—and why shouldn't they be? "Yes," he says, turning. "Hello, Arthur."

And if Merlin had had any ideas about said Arthur, they are now dust in his mind, because the guy looks like—looks like— Well, looks like a fairy tale prince, perfect blonde hair and stoic square jaw. Only, you know, in jeans and a hoodie and sat on the stairs with a tablet in his hand. A fairy tale prince on his day off, then. Saving princesses and slaying dragons must get tiring, after all. Must require a little R&R once in a while.

As Merlin's brain is running off, Arthur pauses, his mouth in a little line. "Alright. I'm sorry, but I don't remember meeting you."

Merlin almost smiles, despite himself. He'll show this posh English git what a _doll_ he is. "Well," he says, with a tinge of mock-sugar, "that's probably because we haven't met." He bats his eyelashes a few times for good measure.

There's an awkward pause. Then Merlin is surprised by an answering twinkle in Arthur's eye as he inclines his chin in acquiescence. "That would be it, yeah." 

Huh.

"So your name's Merlin," Arthur continues.

Merlin answers reflexively, "Oh, yes, quite."

"And you're engaged to my sister."

"…yes." Merlin breaks eye contact, back to hating this morning. He can anticipate Arthur's tone before he even really starts talking.

"Listen, Merlin—"

"I know," Merlin interrupts tiredly, "I know it's quick, and I know it's strange, and I know I'm not her type, but—" He's making useless, desperate hand gestures, now, he knows, but he can't help it. "Well—"

"Merlin." Arthur's tone is so naturally commanding, Merlin finds himself stopping mid-gesticulation, and he looks up to see Arthur standing. He looks bloody huge stood on the stairs, which is just unfair. "What?"

"I just wanted to say… welcome to the family."

"Oh! Oh. Of course. Yes. Thank you."

Thank fucking _Christ_ , the cab horns bleats at that moment. "That's the cab," Merlin says needlessly, with an equally unnecessary gesture. "I'll just be going, then."

"All right." And Gwen was right about Arthur being so very _English_ , because he nods formally and actually indicates the door, as if Merlin has somehow missed that it's the proper exit. "Nice to have met you."

"Yeah, you too." He does one of his awkward Merlin waves. Arthur'd just better get used to him, after all, Merlin thinks facetiously. "Take care."

Arthur nods again, a bemused look having taken ahold of his face. Merlin doesn't even want to know what he's thinking. "You too."

That night, he dreams again. Which is sort of strange, because Merlin's generally not a dreamer. Or a dream-rememberer, at least. And yet, here we are.

The tutu is gone, so that's nice, but the marathon has clearly just begun, which is depressing, and Merlin curses his own subconscious for throwing him into this situation for no reason.

He can feel the ground underneath his feet, can see the track unwinding in front of him—

But he can only see so far down it. He finds himself already winded, and he somehow knows he has a very long journey to go.

And, much to his annoyance, there's still glitter absolutely _everywhere_


	4. 3

"This was the trouble with families. Like invidious doctors, they knew just where it hurt." ~ Arundhati Roy

Merlin forgets about Morgana's Box of Things until Eomer nearly pees in it the next day.

"Bad Rider of Rohan! For the love of God!" Merlin snatches the box up and unceremoniously dumps the cat out. Onto the bed, all right, but still, Eomer looks up at him with so much disdain Merlin feels almost bad. Almost.

"Budge over, at least," he says, but the cat graciously refuses. Merlin settles on the small section of bed that remains, the box in his lap. He stares at it for a moment, then empties it out on the duvet.

Mobile: fancy, expensive, dead. Keys: normal, if ostentatious-looking. Purse: full of confusing girly paraphernalia, like eight different lippies and a packet of baby wipes. Wallet: fairly typical. Merlin shuffles through cards, IDs, and notes to find a clip full of pictures.

The pictures, he takes time with. They're mostly of herself with various people, some of whom Merlin recognises. One with Arthur—they both look very young and handsome indeed—but none with…had his name been Uther? Merlin squints, trying to remember.

He studies the picture of her and Arthur, trying to figure out the story there. The photo itself is lined, as if it's been folded and unfolded and refolded; the edges are a mess and there's a scrape or two as if something had got on it and been picked off with a fingernail.

He flips it over, but there's no date, no nothing.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eomer going for the last thing on the bedspread. "Jesus Christ, cat, what—"

It's a can of cat food. Merlin picks it up and stares at it, an alarm bell pinging in his brain. Then he realizes what it must mean, and is out the door in a flash.

"Holy shit," he breathes, staring at Morgana's flat. It's huge. It's clearly worth a lot of money. It's full of obviously expensive things, things that are all hard lines and neutral colours.

It's… it's a lot like her, really, now that he considers it.

He finds his nose wrinkling a little bit. How anyone can call a place like this home is beyond him, really.

Maybe's she's miserable in it, he reasons. Maybe she's just built it because she thinks that's what her father wants for her, thinks that it's what's best for her, and is really just in need of a wonderful compassionate hero like Merlin to swoop in and open her eyes to the warmth in life. The messes that can make things wonderful.

He shakes the fantasy out of his head. There's a starving cat to be fed, first.

He moves round to the kitchen, which is black and marble and incredibly severe. But probably very functional. He sets the can down and cracks it opens. "Kitty…" He makes cat-appropriate come-hither noises. "Kitty… Rich kitty… Food's here… I know you're hungry…"

He taps the can on the counter with a slightly exasperated sigh. "Please come eat, I'll feel awful if you don't, and I'll have to come find you and what if you're already starved? And I have to discover your body, and explain _that_ to the lot of them. It's all just too horrible to contemplate, so you should come out right now."

Nothing.

He sighs. "Fantastic, now I sound like a mad person."

"Oh, I don't know—"

Merlin jumps a _foot_ into the air at the sound of the mocking voice behind him.

"—You kind of sounded like one all along."

"Arthur!" Merlin hisses, his hand on his stomach; he feels like the wind's been knocked out of him. Arthur's just standing there, in khakis and a red polo like a douche. Or a model. A douchey model with a rude smirk. And extraordinarily blue eyes, Merlin notices for the first time. "You scared the _piss_ out of me."

"Sorry," Arthur says politely, but he's not really sorry, Merlin can tell. "How did you get in here?"

Merlin fumbles in his pocket and holds out Morgana's key ring. "Keys."

"Oh." Arthur's jaw forms a hard line briefly. "You stay here a lot?"

Merlin tries not to twitch. "Oh, you know…" He stuffs the keys back in his pocket and picks up the can of cat food again, prevaricating nervously.

"What's that?" Arthur asks, gesturing at Merlin's hands.

"Food? For Morgana's cat?"

"Morgana doesn't have a cat."

Merlin pulls up short.

Bloody _hell_.

His brain jumps around for plausible rejoinders. Maybe Morgana had been carrying the cat food for a friend. Maybe she had been _planning_ on getting a cat and had just been stocking up. Maybe she secretly turns into a cat at night. "Erm."

Then there's a cranky meow, and round the corner from the hall comes an incredibly sleek, haughty, Siamese cat.

"Well, I'll be damned," Arthur says, bemused.

Merlin rushes over and scoops up the cat, who allows it, but barely, and sets it on the counter with the food. He strokes its back as it eats. "Yeah, she's… not had her very long," Merlin fabricates easily. Nobody can tell the difference between boy cats and girl cats at a glance, anyway. "She's called… She-Ra."

Arthur laughs, full out, unexpectedly, and Merlin is taken aback by the rich sound, by how surprisingly warm and carefree it seems for a stern bloke in a polo. "Clearly you've named her, then, because Morgana would never."

"Oh, please," Merlin scoffs, a twinkle in his eye. "Don't think I don't know about Chewie."

Arthur's eyebrow rises. "You do?"

"Yes. Why's that hard to believe?"

"She's… you know, changed since then." Arthur is clearly trying to display no emotion about this fact, and he's very nearly succeeding. But Merlin somehow knows.

"Everybody changes," he offers quietly, somewhat lamely.

"Yeah, I suppose." There's a bit of a pause, then Arthur clears his throat. "Have you checked her messages? There might be something important there."

"Oh, erm, no, I—" Merlin pulls Morgana's mobile out of his other pocket and holds it up uselessly. "It's dead."

"Oh," Arthur says, "she keeps the charger over…" He rummages through one of the kitchen drawers. "Got it." He plucks the phone out of Merlin's hand, plugs it in and boots it up, his hands sure and practiced, and Merlin feels like an absolute Luddite. "There."

And almost immediately after, the mobile rings. Merlin startles, but so does Arthur, a bit, so he doesn't feel as foolish this time.

Arthur looks at him, clearly deferring to him. Merlin shrugs. "Not my phone, I'm not going to answer it. There are lines."

Arthur makes a smirky 'psht' face and picks up the mobile, checking the caller ID. His visage then takes on a grim tinge, but he still takes the call. "Yes?" He listens for a moment. "You know I can't, Father." The other person continues to talk, and Merlin watches as the lines of Arthur's mouth get more defined. "Of course. We'll be there straight away."

He pushes another button and looks at Merlin. "You're expected down at the hospital to donate blood. It's normal for the families to do."

"Oh?" This is news to Merlin, but he's willing. "And why aren't you going?"

"I am going. I'm taking you there."

Merlin feels the curiosity burning in him. There's a story here. "But you're not donating."

"No, I'm not." And that's all Arthur says.

So Merlin switches tactics. "Is this why you and Gwen didn't work out? Because you can't stand giving blood?"

Arthur looks at him, clearly surprised. "No," he says slowly, "Gwen and I didn't work out for the same reason I can't give blood."

Merlin tilts his head, honestly confused. "I don't understand."

Arthur looks nonplussed. At least, nonplussed for Arthur, so, slightly taken aback to anyone else. "I'm gay, Merlin."

A story, indeed.

"You're— what?" Merlin manages.

Arthur sighs. "Gay? Homosexual? Fond of the cock?"

Merlin chokes. "No need to be crude."

"Well, you seemed a bit slow. I figured we would be needing diagrams and flowcharts, next."

"Oh, shut up. I was just surprised, is all."

"Why?"

"Well, you know. You don't—" He makes a sweeping sort of gesture up and down to indicate Arthur's whole person. "—seem... you know."

Arthur snorts. "I can tell you're new at this, surprisingly enough, so I'll let that go. We need to get going anyway. You can go donate, yeah?"

Surprisingly enough? "Yeah, but—"

"What, afraid of needles?"

"No."

Arthur's eyes narrow. "Don't want to hang round the homosexual anymore?"

"No!" _Yes_ , he thinks truthfully, but not because he's horrified or offended, he's just terribly confused as to how he didn't know, and as to how Arthur's got so into his head that it's made Merlin a little uncomfortable. There's just not room for him, his guilt, his stories, _and_ Arthur. It would get very loud indeed.

"Right, then," Arthur responds, though he clearly doesn't believe Merlin. "We'll see. First off, though, you're driving."

Merlin looks up at him, horrified. "I don't drive!"

Arthur cocks his head. "That's funny, because Morgana doesn't go anywhere on public transportation."

"Oh, yes, of course. How about we take a cab?"

"Vulgar."

"Oh, of course."

"We'll take Morgana's car."

"Of course."

"Of course," Arthur openly mocks him. Then he holds out an arm as if to guide Merlin towards the front door.

Merlin rolls his eyes as he leaves, aware of Arthur's solid presence behind him the whole time. "I know where the exits are, thanks."

Arthur snorts. "You say that like you're robbing a bank."

"Might as well be," Merlin mutters as they're descending the stairs.

The stairwell is echo-ey enough that Arthur doesn't hear him. "What was that?"

"Oh, nothing," Merlin throws over his shoulder. 

They arrive at the garage level without further comment. Merlin stops, trying not to be obvious about his complete and utter lack of knowledge about cars of any kind, let alone Morgana's.

"Get on with it," Arthur says, gesturing towards the lot.

"Right."

Arthur smirks, not too kindly. "You _do_ know which car is hers, right?"

"Of course!" Merlin says quickly, then smothers a flinch. He'd think with all his stories, he'd have some semblance of verbal acuity, and sometimes he does, but with Arthur it's like he's forgotten every word over two syllables. And he doesn't so much as like the feeling.

"Alright, then. Go ahead."

"Right." Then Merlin has a moment of brilliance. He pushes the unlock button on the key fob, et viola, a very flash car one row down makes its presence known. "There you are."

Arthur shoots him a glance, then starts towards the car. "So I'm to drive, then?"

Merlin hands over the keys without a second thought. "Unless you want us to end up in hospital with Morgana."

Arthur makes a hmm-ing noise as they get in and get situated. It's definitely the nicest car Merlin's ever been _near_ , let alone in, and he feels insanely out of place. Although the leather seats are, he'll admit, incredibly comfortable. Perks of being filthy rich.

It drives like a dream, of course. And when driving, it turns out, Arthur's not nearly as annoying. He's just a bloke sat in a really comfy car in a writhing city, with Merlin his unwitting passenger.

Until he starts talking.

"So, how did you and Morgana meet?"

Merlin purses his lips. "A coffee shop." He tries not to sound like he's reciting a made-up fact.

"When?"

"September 30th."

"That's fast," Arthur muses.

"You have no idea," Merlin mutters.

He can feel Arthur's sidelong glance. He shifts in his seat and stares determinedly out the window at the city crawling by.

"Was it love at first sight?"

Merlin allows a tiny smile. "Yes."

"For her as well?"

Which disappears instantly. "That's a bit unkind."

"I'm sorry, it's just—you're not exactly Morgana's type."

"So?" Merlin's full distracted now, glaring at Arthur. "Who pays attention to 'types' anymore? What does 'type' even mean, anyway?"

Arthur sighs. "Calm down, Merlin. I was just making an observation."

"An arsehatty observation."

Arthur full-on looks at him, this time. "What was that?"

"You heard me."

"Right."

There's awkward silence for about two blocks.

"I also wouldn't figure her to be your type," Arthur finally says, reluctantly.

Merlin refuses to turn. "Oh?"

"Yeah. She's a little too…"

"Rich?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Beautiful?"

"Oh, for God's sake—"

"Educated?"

"No, you idiot, and if you'd let me talk—"

But Merlin is heated. "How are you to know how much school I've done?"

"— _female_!"

The air in the car stands still.

Merlin's brain ticks furiously. His tongue eventually unsticks from the roof of his mouth. "Beg pardon?" 

"Really?"

"Arthur."

"Yes, Merlin," Arthur says, in a bored tone. "I thought you were gay when I met you."

"You— Beg _pardon_?"

Arthur rolls his eyes. Merlin knows because he's full-on staring at him at this point, his mouth open and his eyes huge, while Arthur just looks put-together and annoyingly droll. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, you'll just prove my point."

"Your _point_?"

"Yes, my point."

"Your point that I'm gay."

"No."

"But you said—"

"You're whatever you want to be, Merlin. I just made an assumption, and was apparently wrong."

"Apparently."

"Please don't get stuck on that. It'd be very annoying."

"Fine. Why would you make such an assumption?"

Arthur shrugs. "Little things. Don't worry about it. I was apparently wrong."

"No. No, there is no 'don’t worry about it.' Tell me."

Arthur makes a vexed noise as he turns into the hospital parking garage. "You don't want to do this, mate."

"Yes, I do. _Mate_."

Arthur manoeuvres the car into a tight spot, his mouth in a little line. Then he cuts the engine and turns to Merlin. "Fine. What course were you in?"

"How did you know I—"

"Merlin."

"Victorian literature."

"Right, not homosexual at all."

"Oh, sod off, it's also—"

"You don't need to sell me; I'm a fan." Merlin doesn't quite know what to say to that, but luckily Arthur's still talking. "What’s the fourth track on Lady Gaga’s second album?”

“Erm…" Merlin thinks for about half a second. "'Judas.'"

Arthur cocks on eyebrow at him.

“Well, everybody knows that!”

“Everybody where? The Little Gay Bar on the Prairie?”

"Are you kidding me right now? My musical tastes don't have anything to do with—"

"Fine, let's move on to the tough questions. What does Hilary Clinton make you feel?" Arthur puts out his hand in a 'stop' gesture. "Don't tell me," he clarifies, then points at Merlin's chest. "Just feel it."

"Okay…" And Merlin loves Secretary Clinton, he really does. She's competent and lovely and well-spoken and forward-thinking and it gives him a surge to watch her work. He lets himself remember that surge, then nods.

"Right. Now, how does Morgana make you feel?"

Merlin smiles, thinks of his beautiful goddess, with her books and her coffee and her suits.

Then he blinks.

It's the same feeling.

"Moving on," Arthur says. Merlin looks at him. His eyes are hard, for no reason Merlin can fathom. "Have you ever dated a person you could honestly see yourself waking up to every morning for the rest of your life? Somebody you could laugh with every day, truly laugh with, you two against the world?"

Merlin stares at him. His heart has kicked him in the stomach; he feels sort of like he'll be sick. "I…" He trails off helplessly. "Morgana… was supposed to be…"

Arthur grimaces, then looks away. A little muscle in his jaw jumps. "I told you you didn't want to do this."

"You were right," Merlin manages. "And you're a right prick." Some of the tension drains out of him with the vitriol.

A corner of Arthur's mouth turns up wryly. "A fact of which I am very, very aware."

Merlin huffs a laugh, or at least something near a laugh. "No, seriously. Why does anyone put up with you?"

"Because they've got to. Now let's go. You've got blood to let."

And Arthur's up and out of the car before Merlin can even think clearly. When he reaches for the handle, the door's already opening, with Arthur on the other side. "Don't worry," he says, a smirk firmly back on his face. "I'll catch you when you swoon."

Merlin's flat is cold and dark when he gets home that evening. Fantastic.

He throws his things down on the side table and goes directly to the bathroom to pee and wash his face. He's not a face-washer, in general, but it's either that or have a shower, and he's too knackered to do that at the moment. He just feels like he needs a scrub.

But when it's done, he doesn't feel much better. "What do you think, Eomer?" he says as he fwumps down on his bed. "Am I a raging poof and just don't know it?" Eomer doesn't answer but to nibble at Merlin's fingers. "Right."

He gets the cat food into the dish and his own food into the microwave, then sits back down at his kitchen table—he doesn't have a desk, whether out of emotional repression or poverty he doesn't care to discern—and stares at his laptop. The ding of the timer startles him out of his internal debate.

Well, why the hell not?

He boots the computer up while blowing on his tiny pot pie. He's not too much of a porn aficionado, but he is human. He starts with a (firmly heterosexual) site he normally visits, then clicks around on some of the sidebar links that he usually ignores.

And it's not _bad_ , per se. There's plenty arousing about a cock getting sucked even if it's by a man, and the videos are _designed_ to titillate so it's hardly a demerit on Merlin's heterosexuality that there's some stirring in his pants.

But it's all so… so porntastically gross. Staged. Over-acted. And there's nearly no prep for the bottom, just blow jobs then bam, cock in arse, and yet everybody's happy? While he's not been on the receiving end of anal sex per se, he has some experience with it and just doesn't deem the scenario possible, let alone plausible. So it's not more than a little stirring. He just can't get over the logistics.

He snorts at himself and his ridiculousness. Who cares about the logistics of porn? Clearly this isn't for him.

He's about to give up and fly the flag for his own straightness when he clicks on something advertising 'boyfriend sex.'

It's slow to start, just two blokes on a bed talking to the guy behind the camera. Then there's some kissing, but their clothes stay on for a while, and nothing at all about it is pornographic, technically speaking. Merlin's almost bored, but then he leans in, looks closer, at their faces, at their eyes.

They're really enjoying it, and not just because they're about to get off. They actually like each other, it's clear. Kisses are intense, and varying from sexual to clearly just affectionate. Hands linger on non-sexual parts, like elbows and smalls of backs. And they talk to each other, little whispers with laughs and smiles, like an inside joke, or the beginnings of one.

An ache blooms in Merlin's chest. He remembers what that's like, that intimacy, at least the heterosexual version. But it's been so long it's hazy and he wonders—he wonders if it was ever real at all. He'd been so young.

Then one of them starts to gently, nearly reverently, prepare his partner for penetration, and the look of bliss on the recipient's face, and satisfaction on the giver's… Merlin's most definitely got a stirring in his pants now. And in his gut.

He shuts the laptop before it can go any further.

He stares unseeingly at the wall for a really long time, his brain a blank mess.

When it finally starts ticking again, his food is cold and Eomer is long gone. The moon is full outside, and Merlin's heart kicks in his chest, knowing what he's about to do.

Then he picks up a pen, and he starts to write.

That night, just as planned, Merlin changes the course of his own dreams. It's safe, he's sure of it. No one else is involved, in any possible way this could play out. It's just him and his brain. Well, and his libido. There's no way this can end badly.

On your marks. Get set.

Go.

The dream starts with a man. And yes, Merlin is expecting that, but he's not expecting the 'man' part to manifest itself so immediately, and so sensually instead of sexually. But all he can think about is how it feels different, literally: There's stubble, there's chest hair, there's warmth.

It's that last bit that really does his head in. Perhaps it's just been that long for him, but as he sleepily registers the weight and form of the body draped over his side, he is overwhelmed by the sheer literal heat washing over him.

Then the arm over his chest tightens, hand stroking his skin, and lips brush his neck, making it another kind of heat entirely. "Jesus," he breathes.

There's a rough chuckle beneath his chin, which Merlin more feels more than hears, then a bit of a nibble on just the spot— And as Merlin's trying to process just how brilliant that feels, how warm the skin is against him, how nice the sheets are, how even the grey English daylight petering through the window is lovely… there's also a hand descending into his sleep pants.

He gasps, a grunty little noise that he'd normally be embarrassed by, but somehow he knows this chap he's with finds it endearing instead.

Mostly as evidenced by the fact that he seems determined to elicit it again and again, what with his hand working Merlin's cock lazily, befitting of the morning, but firmly enough to make Merlin's hips undulate into the air.

And it's definitely a man's hand, blunt and sure, and a man's unshaven cheek against his collarbone, and a sleep-stinky man smell mixing in with his own and the newly-sharpened tang of sex. Merlin finds he doesn't mind.

Merlin, in fact, finds himself tightening his grip.

Then, of course, as these things do, the scene changes. They're walking somewhere, Merlin and this mystery lad of his. Fully-clothed, mind.

Somewhere turns out to be a very familiar stretch of runner's track.

Merlin stares at the open road in front of him, heart pounding.

He can feel the presence of his partner behind him, sure and steady and there for him, but he's terrified, absolutely terrified, all the same.

Then something flashes in his peripheral vision.

He looks up, curious— only to see glitter raining down from the sky.

He closes his eyes for a moment, and takes a deep breath. Then he starts to run.


	5. 4

"Home is where you are loved the most and act the worst." ~ Marjorie Pay Hinckley

"How's Tasty Coma Wife?" Freya asks the next morning over the hiss of the espresso machine.

"I'm sorry?"

Freya tsks at him. "Do you not remember anything from all the _Scrubs_ I made you watch?"

Merlin shakes his head as he closes the cash register. "Your fascination with American sitcoms is disturbing as ever."

"And you're still pants at deflection. How is she?"

Merlin sighs, slumping down onto a stool. "She's still in a coma."

"And still tasty."

"You are a tart."

She bats her eyelashes at him. Something flashes in the light.

"What's that?" he says, motioning to his own eye, then to hers.

She reaches up and brushes at her face. "Oh, probably just detritus from last night."

"Go out on the pull, did you?"

Freya laughs. "Oh god no. We went to a gay club."

Merlin blinks. "Why?"

"Well, to dance, of course."

"Dance?"

"Yes, dance. Nobody knows how to dance like the gays, Merlin."

And if Merlin had needed any more confirmation of his heterosexuality, there it is, because his dancing skills are limited to the Electric Slide and a bit of a waltz his mother forced him to learn as a kid. He's hopeless at it, absolutely hopeless.

Freya brushes at her eye again. "There, is it gone?"

"Yeah," Merlin says absently.

But it's not, he notices later. And then, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, it winks and blinks and shimmers at him all day long.

That night, Merlin blames the caffeine and the dreams for the fact that he finds himself saying goodbye to Eomer and heading out.

It's got nothing to do with the phone call he'd got from Gwen earlier, inviting him round for dinner. He's just going to Morgana's flat to feed the cat, he rationalises. And it works, too, until he gets there and there's no cat. Just a note.

_I'm taking him back. You never liked him anyway._

And it's signed 'Morgause.'

Well, well.

He looks at the clock on his mobile. Still plenty of time to get to Gwen's.

Damn it all to hell.

An hour later when he finds himself getting out of a cab in Harrow yet again, another bottle of wine heavy in his hands, he really has no excuse. Other than being invited, of course. Under false pretences.

The cab pulls away, and Merlin stares up at the house, overwhelmed again. Still. He feels so _guilty_ , and yet…

He starts up the stairs without looking back.

"These are really excellent mushy peas, Gwen."

"Thanks, love."

"I like peas better not mushy. No offense, Gwen."

"None taken."

"I hate it when apples are mushy."

"You know who grows good apples? Washington."

"They have good apples at the White House?"

"No, the other Washington."

"There's another Washington?"

"Why does the White House grow peas?"

Merlin can't but bite his lip against the smile that's threatening. He's sat, eating what could definitely be called excellent mushy peas, which is something because Merlin's not a big fan, elbows bumping Leon on one side and Gwaine on the other as they chat around the kitchen table at Gwen's place. Merlin had glimpsed a magnificent dining room during his previous visit, but he adores the fact that Gwen would rather have all her friends in here, where it's hot and smells like the still-baking dessert and the wine rack is never out of reach.

As evidenced by the conversation flowing around Merlin.

"They don't grow peas, they grow Easter eggs."

"On what, special trees? Do us a favour."

Merlin can't quite smother the snort caused by that. He glances up immediately, his face heating up.

Everyone else is too distracted by the conversation, but Arthur's twinkling eyes meet his, his lips tilted up in shared quiet amusement. Merlin flushes more and looks down at his plate again, but he can't stop smiling.

"It's the White House, one never knows!"

"Good coffee from Washington, too. Coffee and hipsters."

"The hipsters are definitely not growing the Easter eggs, though. They're mostly vegans."

Merlin sets his fork down, props his head up on one of his hands, and locks helpless gazes with Arthur, who has stopped his fork near his mouth, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

It must be the wine, Merlin thinks, but he feels warmer than he has in years.

"Penny for them?" Gwen's voice startles Merlin from where he's staring motionless out her kitchen window an hour later, a half-washed dish gripped in his hands. When he just looks confused, she continues. "You're helping clean up; least I can do is find out what's troubling you."

Merlin blinks at her. "I… Well…"

Then she blanches. "Oh, God, Morgana, of course, how could I? I mean, I think about her incessantly but I forget that you are probably hurting too, and worried, and you're probably not sleeping, and I'm so sorry! I—"

"Gwen, let the man breathe," Arthur interrupts dryly.

"Actually, I think it's her that needs the pause," Merlin retorts, smiling at Gwen and finishing up the dish. "Listen, is there—do you have a back porch or anything?"

"No, we don't, I'm sorry."

Arthur takes the dish towel from Merlin's hand and hangs it up. "You need a fag?"

Merlin protests. "Need one, no. Always want one when wankered on wine, yes."

"It's a common affliction. Come on, then." He kisses Gwen on the forehead. "I'll take him out on the roof."

Gwen seems incredibly surprised. "If you think that's… wise."

Merlin is trying not to let his befuddled state show. "Erm… that sounds fine? Is it… safe?"

Arthur guffaws and claps Merlin on the shoulder, guiding him towards the stairs. "Unless you're so much of an idiot you go around falling off roofs, yes, it's safe."

"Oh, all right."

"And you're not that much of an idiot, are you?"

"Sometimes, I wonder."

"Me too."

It turns out they have to climb out through a window, and not the biggest window either; Merlin briefly wonders how Arthur's shoulders even fit. But once outside, Merlin's breath is taken away by more than just the height. "Jesus, Arthur, this is beautiful."

There's silence while Merlin takes in the view. He turns to find Arthur watching him. "What?"

Arthur pauses, then shakes his head a little. "Just making sure you don't take a dive."

"Your concern for my safety is heart-warming."

"I'm just that noble. So? Fag?"

"Yes. Right. Well. We've established I'm the kind of idiot that doesn't fall off roofs—not that I've had ample opportunity to test that, but I'm fairly certain—but I am the kind that never carries cigarettes even though I know I want them when I'm drinking."

Arthur replies by cuffing him round the back of the head. Lightly, but still.

"Rude!" Merlin sputters hotly.

"What happened to noble?"

"It was clearly only a temporary condition."

"Yeah? Guess I don't have to give you one of these, then." And he reaches down into a planter and pulls out a shiny cigarette case.

Merlin feels his eyebrows rise in surprise. "Really? Does Gwen know?"

"She pretends not to," Arthur says blithely as he opens the case and passes one over.

"Ah."

"I tend to only want them when I've had a bad day at the office."

"So, every day, then?" Merlin says, cigarette in his mouth and hand out for a light.

"Hah. No. Well, maybe during tax season." Arthur clicks the lighter into flame, then holds it out for Merlin, who is a bit taken aback but leans forward after only a moment. It's a small, close circle of light, and heat, and Arthur's face is in strange shadows.

"Have a seat," Arthur says, more like instructs, as he himself sits. Merlin complies, because as much as he might protest, he is a little drunk, and he's not interested in pitching off the roof accidentally. They smoke contentedly for a few minutes, then Merlin asks a question he's been dying to ask. "Your dad, does he—know?"

Arthur blows out a plume of smoke. "About me?"

"Yes."

"About me being gay?"

"Arthur."

"Does my dad know about me being gay?"

"You're a knob."

"He knows that."

"Hard to miss."

"Unlike the fact that I'm gay?"

Merlin scowls, takes a retaliatory drag and blows it out in Arthur's direction. "You're going to hold that over me forever, aren't you."

"I might do, yeah."

"Well, fine, but that doesn't mean you can get out of my question."

Arthur clears his throat then puts his cigarette to his lips. "Yes," he says finally. "My father knows."

"And?"

"And, what?"

"Oh my god you are useless."

Arthur grins. "So I'm told."

"Again, though, it doesn't get you out of the question."

"What was the question?"

And Merlin looks at him, really looks at him. Thinks about that fire-breathing man he'd met that first night at the hospital. And guesses for himself. "He didn't take it well."

Arthur grimaces and looks away, exhaling roughly. "Merlin, use your head. I still work for him, don't I? Keep holidays with him?"

"You keep holidays with Gwen and Lance."

"How would you know?"

"They told me."

"Busybodies."

"They love you."

"Yeah."

"God knows why."

"Do you want me to answer your silly questions or what?"

But Merlin just shakes his head. "I don't think you need to."

"Look, he didn't kick me out or anything, all right? There was no dramatic scene, no crying, no 'How did I fail you as a father?' or 'What about the grandchildren?'

"I think the answers to both are pretty clear."

"Merlin," Arthur says sharply, "don't judge what you don't understand."

"Alright, alright." Merlin holds up his hands. "I didn't mean to offend. I just know what I see." 

Arthur sighs. "Well, I do suppose it is rather obvious that we aren't very close."

"You could say that."

They sit there for a while, words stewing in Merlin's head, but he barely knows this man so he's not really in a position to analyse. So he just looks out at the city, smoking his cigarette and rubbing his arms a little to chase away the chill. It's not altogether the worst moment he's ever had.

He's surprised when Arthur's voice breaks the silence. "That’s why we call each other ‘family.’”

Merlin looks at him. “Who?”

“Who,” Arthur scoffs. “The homos. The queers. The _bent_.”

Merlin reddens. “Oh.” Then he tucks in his chin. “What’s why?”

“Because family is who sticks by you.”

“Right.” Unless they're dead, Merlin thinks childishly. In which case they are no help at all.

Arthur tilts his chin a little, as if sensing Merlin's inner monologue is not quite fitting with the outer dialogue. “Right.”

Merlin shakes his head, focusing. “But they’re not all—" He waves his hand in the general direction of the house. Smoke dances about in the night air. “You know.”

"Of the gay?" Arthur presses his lips together, clearly fighting a smile. “Not unless you get them really pissed, no.”

"Have you—with any of them?"

"Well, Gwen in school. Gwaine, when I was first coming out."

" _Gwaine?_ "

"Yeah, 'course. He didn't hit on you the moment he met you? The man thinks he invented the term 'omnisexual.'"

"No, he—" Merlin tries to remember, then freezes when he does.

"Ah, he _did_ , didn't he. I knew it."

"No, actually. He—" But it kind of dies in his throat.

"He what? Knew you were saving yourself for marriage?"

Merlin glares. "If you must know, he said I was more your type."

Arthur stares at him, surprised. Then he clears his throat and looks away. "Yes, well. He's a piece of work, that one."

When Merlin looks at him, he's steadfastly looking at the skyline. Merlin takes in the cut of his cheek, the sweep of his eyelashes, the tense line of his jaw.

Then Arthur looks over at him, and Merlin's lungs jump from being caught staring.

Arthur's gaze is frank and determined. “But any one of them, including Gwaine, would die for me. Any one of them would stand in front of lines of police and clergy and politicians and God himself to defend me and my right to love whomever I love.”

“And…” Merlin pauses, flicks out his fag. “And who’s that?”

Arthur reaches back into the planter and comes out with a tiny silver ashtray, which he sets between them, then spends time taking a final drag and grinding out his butt. “Nobody, really, at the moment.”

Merlin doesn't have anything to say to that, and eventually Arthur looks sideways at him. "What? Surprised?"

"No! I mean, yes, because you're fit and rich and all that, but workaholics don't tend to have time for dinner and flowers."

Arthur looks at the same time offended and flattered. "You just called me fit. And a workaholic. I can see why you'd think the first, obviously, but who told you I'm a workaholic?"

Merlin rolls his eyes. "Nobody, you clotpole. I have eyes."

"Clearly, because you called me fit."

"Jesus Christ, shut up. It's just that in the two, three days I've known you lot, you've been to exactly one of the planned functions. And you smell like toner and financial statements when you do show up."

Arthur looks at him, askance. "Well. I don't even know what to say to that."

"Say, 'Why, yes, Merlin, you are a genius and I am a poncy workaholic English git with daddy issues, oh and I probably need to get laid.'"

"Oi!"

Merlin just grins. Then bats his eyelashes for good measure.

Then something occurs to him, and he's just tipsy enough to ask. "What about marriage?"

Arthur smirks. "Well, I hardly know you, but you did call me fit, so clearly you can't be all bad."

"Git."

"Ah, the honeymoon's over so quickly these days."

"I mean, you can do it now, yeah? You seem like rather the traditional bloke, like you'd want to do the whole shebang."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You really do think you have me figured out, eh?"

Merlin shrugs. "Everybody's got a story. I just… see them more clearly."

Arthur's gaze lingers. "You're rather fascinating, aren't you?"

Merlin, much to his chagrin, feels his cheeks heat up. "And you think you're so clever for answering questions with questions, don't you?"

"Fine, yes, yes, I am a traditional sort of _gentleman_ who would prefer, if I should be so lucky as to find one person to be with, to proclaim it in front of God and country, which is mostly a lot of ladies in hats, yes."

"But…?"

"Well, I haven't met the bloke yet, have I?"

"Think that might've been stopping you?"

"What now?"

"Did you ever think your inability to marry have stopped stop you from considering your surely numerous liaisons as potential for anything more serious?"

"That's quite a skill, taking a compliment and fashioning it into insult."

"Answer the damn question, you dick."

Arthur makes a dismissive gesture. "No, I don't think so, and that is my answer."

"Because?"

"Because I…" Arthur looks down at his hands, twisting the heavy ring on his right third finger. He's clearly reluctant. Embarrassed, even. Merlin can't help but find it a little bit endearing.

"Oh come on, Arthur, there's no one else out here. And God knows I don't have anyone to tell."

That does it. "Because I've had this, alright?"

And he holds out the ring.

It's gigantic, really, but not in an offensive way, just in an old money sort of way. It's gold, of course, and has the signet of a red dragon on it, fierce, traditional, mythical.

Pretty well on the nose.

"Okay… so you have a ring."

"Family ring. Been with us for a mortifyingly long time."

"All right, that's fitting, if stodgy and pretentious."

Arthur shoots him a glare. "You're the one that asked."

"My apologies for telling the truth, sir."

"Impertinent bastard."

"So my teachers always claimed." Merlin hands the ring back. "So you'd, what, present it so your man and hope it's enough?"

Arthur shrugs. "I'll know it's enough."

"Ah. You're of that mind."

"What mind?"

"The mind that thinks The One exists, and all that."

Arthur turns to him. "And you don't? I thought it was love at first sight for you?"

Merlin blinks. "Well, yeah, but… but there are doubts. There are always doubts. Aren't there always doubts?"

Arthur chuckles. "You're ridiculous."

"Sod off."

"Sure, at first, maybe there are going to be doubts. I mean, on a first date you don't know if their habit of leaving the toothpaste half-squeezed is going to drive you round the bend."

"Half-squeezed?"

"It's just an example, Merlin."

"Who do you know that leaves the toothpaste half-squeezed?" Then he thinks of the answer the same time Arthur says it. "Gwaine."

They share a laugh, and Merlin's tummy hums pleasantly. His hands are relaxed in his lap. "But maybe you'd know on the first date whether you love that person enough to get over that truly filthy habit."

Arthur laughs. "That's my point exactly."

Merlin chuckles ruefully. "Yeah, I just realized that. Some great debater I am."

"It's fine. I don’t mind being right."

"Oh, I'm sure you don't."

"Good thing it's very nearly always the case."

"God, you're insufferable."

"Yet here you sit."

"Yeah," Merlin retorts, standing, "and it's chilly, and you're a prat, so I think my fit of temporary insanity might be at an end."

"Shame," Arthur says, standing as well. "We were just getting to know each other."

"Meaning, you were just getting to be right and I was just getting to look like an idiot."

"Exactly. A perfect evening."

"I loathe you." Merlin reaches for the window latch but Arthur's hand is there first. Merlin looks at him. His cheeks are a little pink, probably from the cold, but he's clearly determined to let Merlin go in first. Merlin doesn't feel like arguing. 

Although he does feel like turning around and locking Arthur outside when he hears the next words out of his mouth. "And yet you're secretly drawn to me." In fact, he tries to do just that, but Arthur's too quick for him, and, grinning, drops into the tiny attic behind him.

And it's very tiny indeed. They both have to stoop, and suddenly Merlin realizes he can feel Arthur's breath on his cheek, smell the cigarette he'd just had. The air seems to be getting sucked out of the room, because there certainly is a shortage of it in Merlin's lungs, and what's left in there with them is—is really, really warm.

Finally, Merlin manages to break the moment with a clever, "You wish, you arse."

Arthur just shakes his head, a smirk still firm on his face but tinged with—fondness? now. He's contemplating Merlin, and Merlin doesn't know what to do. He feels trapped, but—but he's not sure it's the worst place to be.

The attic door bursting open startles them, enough that they both hit their heads on the ceiling.

"Oh, excellent," Gwaine says with a grin and a laugh, as they rub their heads. "I was hoping Arthur had shown you the place. Mind your heads."

"Gwaine," Arthur says with a slight growl, "you could knock."

And that's just over the edge of too much for Merlin. He feels the cigarette settling unhappily in his stomach, dancing awkwardly with the overabundance of wine and food. "I should go," he says lamely as he edges towards the door. "Work tomorrow."

Arthur's brow furrows, and he follows Merlin. "You alright?"

Merlin tries not to think about how Arthur always seems to just _know_. "Yeah, I'm fine, just tired."

Gwaine's galumphs joyfully down the stairs behind them, making Merlin's urge to flee even stronger. When they hit the landing, and the front hall, Gwaine turns to him and Arthur, who are closest to the outer door and the coat rack. "Well, Gwen's about to turn in so I was just coming to see if the party would continue without her. Merlin is clearly out, pardoning the pun—"

"Gwaine," Arthur says sharply.

"—but the night's still young. Arthur?"

Arthur's mouth tightens, then he shakes his head. "Nah, mate. Thanks, though. I have to be at the office in the morning, as well."

"On a Saturday?" Merlin can't help but ask. "I thought only customer service peons had to do such ignoble things."

"Ignobility is more common in my life than one would think, I'm afraid," Arthur says, reaching for Merlin's coat and holding it out to him. "Here."

Merlin smiles a little, despite himself. "I'm perfectly capable of retrieving my own jacket, you know," he says while he dons said jacket and Arthur reaches for his own.

"Yes, I'm aware. I just wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself trying to reach for it."

"You're shorter than I am!" Merlin protests, but he's cut off by Elena's delighted voice.

"Oh look, lads, you're under the mistletoe!"

Merlin looks over to find a cluster of friends grinning in the doorway. "Kiss him, then!" Gwen says cheerfully. "Go on, kiss him!"

Merlin blinks at her, then at Arthur, then back to her. His ears have got to be red, he's sure of it. "Beg pardon?"

"We're not gender-biased when it comes to inane traditions," Arthur explains wryly.

"At least he's not your sister!" Gwaine calls out.

Merlin huffs a laugh. "There is that."

Arthur looks at him, a little sheepish but a little smirky, and shrugs. "Well, we can't defy history, now, can we?"

"Erm," Merlin says, "if you say s—"

But Arthur's already leant over and kissed him, quick but sure, perfunctory but not unkind.

Merlin pulls back first, feeling extraordinarily weird. "Yes, thanks, nicely done."

Arthur lets out a genuine laugh. "Ten from the Welsh judge?"

"Shut it," Merlin replies, trying not to laugh himself, for some insane reason. He turns to the rest of them. "And on what I'm sure was a very entertaining note for the lot of you, I am off." He gives cheek kisses and handshakes all around. "Thank you for having me here, all of you. I…" He trails off as he looks at their faces. He can't stand how much he's begun to love them all in such a short period of time. "You've no idea how much it means to me."

Gwen's face is soft. "Any time, Merlin. And I mean that."

And she does, is the rub. "Right. Thanks." Merlin gets the door open, and turns to give a little wave. "Night."

He shuts the door, before Arthur can get a word in, and escapes into the night air.


	6. 5

"But it was love that made me nervous. Love that reminded me of someone coming up and tapping me on the back, then acting like he hadn't done anything when I turned to see who was there." ~Merrill Markoe & Andy Prieboy

That night, Merlin falls asleep with trepidation in his gut.

It starts with cold feet, this next dream does. Cold feet and warm everything else. Merlin pulls his feet back up under the duvet, curling up behind the warm, sleep-soft but well-muscled and infinitely masculine body in front of him. Mingling his cold feet with his bedmate's warm calves.

His partner grumbles vaguely and tries to turn, but Merlin finds the sleepy strength to hold him from it. "I'm the big spoon," he murmurs, lips against a warm neck. He kisses the skin there, once, twice, three times because it's pink and it's right there and it makes his lover curl into him, causes him to reach back and put a warm hand on Merlin's neck, pulling them even more close together.

Then Merlin finds out it wasn't his strength that kept his partner the little spoon, but his partner's willingness to be thus, because in a sleepy, long, blink of an eye, he finds himself on his other side and surrounded by sudden, inexorable heat. And with the definite form of a cock poking at his bum.

His heart ticks up a notch, but not from panic. There's a nose in the hair at the nape of his neck, and a hand on his stomach, gently pulling him in, and it's all really quite lovely.

Then fingertips slip into him, and after the initial jolt of shock he's surprised to find he's very nearly still relaxed and prepared, assumedly from the night before. It occurs to him what a mess he must be, logically speaking, a fact which has put him off such activities in the past—but somehow it doesn't much concern him, nor, apparently, his partner, who works fingers in and out of him lazily, with the definite tinge of a caress. And even though it's not a first for Merlin physically, he has never felt more exposed to someone in his life, somehow.

This time his heart kicking is a little bit from panic, but he knows, with dreamy certainty, that there's a solution— He reaches up and back, and his partner is there, making unintelligible but soothing noises and keeping as much of himself pressed up against Merlin as can be. Merlin clutches at soft strands of hair as the fingers inside him are replaced by a cock, and he's filled up in a way he never even thought possible.

They spend only a few seconds adjusting, because obviously they've had practice at this, then the man starts moving, small movements like he's half-asleep—which he probably is—but he knows Merlin's body well, because Merlin feels a push of pleasure each time, little smoulders that pile on top of each other little by little. Then the movements grow, and there's a hand sliding over Merlin's hip to touch him, pulling lazily at his cock.

And eventually, very quickly, it's almost too much, the pleasure. It lances through him, fills him up like a balloon until his whole skin feels like it's stretched taut, and he's not sure what's going to happen but he knows it's going to be messy and it scares him to death—

Until he feels lips on his neck, feels more than hears a comforting murmur as his partner wraps more fully around him than he ever cared think about. He's enveloped in heat and love and lust and—

"Go on, love," is whispered in his ear, in a very smooth English accent but he's too gone to really notice.

He comes with a whimper.

The racing track is gone.

In its stead is a long, glittering, twisting forest trail, disappearing into a dark wood.

Merlin laughs out loud. "Are you taking the mickey?" he shouts at the dream's sky. "What's next? A clearing with fairies and a discotheque?"

No answer.

Merlin shrugs, and then starts down the path.

He's lost rather quickly, but as he expected as much, he's not too concerned.

He just knows, somehow, that all he has to do is keep moving.

"Merlin."

Freya's voice sounds like it's coming from very far away, but he responds anyway. "Yeah?"

Freya sighs. "God, I've said your name like eighteen times. What planet are you on today?"

"Sorry, I'm just… tired."

"Tired." Freya crosses her arms in front of her and cocks an eyebrow at him.

"No, I didn't get laid. I know that's what you're thinking."

She looks mildly disappointed. "Okay, then what?"

Merlin takes a deep breath. "Well, for one, I keep having these dreams." He waves them off. "But really I was just up late with Morgana's family."

"Whose?" Freya says sweetly.

Too sweetly. "Freya," Merlin say warningly.

"I'm confused," she says airily, twirling a lock of hair around her finger and blinking at him with comically wide eyes.

"Tasty Coma Wife," Merlin finally says reluctantly.

Freya drops the act instantly and laughs affectionately, touching his arm. "Oh you're such a dear, I'm sorry. I really should show more respect for her, I suppose."

And she does look a smidge bit guilty, so Merlin continues. "I was with her family. Well, friends." Blonde hair and a square jaw flash in his mind. "Family."

"Which is it?"

Merlin shrugs. "Both, I suppose. One is her brother—half-brother, I'm guessing, but I haven't had the minerals to ask yet. Anyway, his name is Arthur, and he's a wanker." She immediately gives him a suspicious look. "But the rest are lovely! There's Gwen, who likes to take care of everyone, and her brother Elyan, who doesn't say much but cooks a mean steak, and Gwen's partner Lance, who is very noble. He put me to bed—well, sofa—the first night I was there because I'd had too much wine. And there's Elena, who says quite a lot, she's like a hummingbird, and her partner Leon, who is… well, bearded. Magnificently so."

"Magnificently bearded."

"Quite."

"Merlin, are you sure you didn't miss your calling as a poet?"

"Freya."

"I can totally see you in a beret at a mic looking bereft."

"Have I mentioned that you really need to stop watching American sitcoms?"

"Not today, no. So we've got—" She ticks them off on her fingers. "—a mother figure, a knight, a philosopher, an ingénue—" Merlin snorts at that, at the whole list, really, but he lets Freya continue on her tangent. "—a sidekick, and…"

"And a wanker," Merlin finishes grumpily.

"Sure."

"Seriously, Freya, he's like… He's the heir to this giant company their father heads, and he basically sleeps with anybody he wants, although it just so happens that he only wants men, and he's very vocal about _that_ fact, and you've never met anybody so _English_ in your bloody life, and he wears these _polos_ like you would not believe, honestly, he's like an 80s Ralph Lauren advert—"

"Merlin."

"Yes."

"Breathe."

"Bugger off."

"You're welcome."

"Have I mentioned he's a wanker?"

"No, I don't think you mentioned that at all."

"Well, he is. He's a prat who thinks he's a prince."

"A homosexual prince."

Merlin colours. "Must you be so loud about it?"

"Yes."

"I mean it's not like he wears rainbow bracelets or short shorts."

"What about glitter?"

Merlin groans. "Can we not talk about glitter?"

"And I'm sure he'd look dashing in a pair of short shorts."

Instead of admitting the statistically probable truth of that, Merlin swats her on the bum with a tea towel. She leaps away with a giggle, and a customer appears, and the conversation is over.

Thank God.

"For fuck's sake, cat. I'm trying to enjoy some quality Doyle time. Please stop rubbing against said Doyle." A corner of his mouth turns up as he runs fingers over Eomer's soft forehead, which Eomer has spent the last fifteen minutes butting up against the Sherlock Holmes compendium Merlin's reading for about the fiftieth time. "Not that I don't empathise with the inclination."

And his hand comes to a slow stop as he realizes what he's just said.

He turns it over in his brain a few times, looking at it from all angles. He's just about decided he meant it only as a fan when there's a knock on the door, startling him and causing Eomer to tear right out of the room. "Pussy," Merlin mutters as he stands.

He steps up to the peephole, then leans back in surprise. He pauses, though he's not sure why, before he opens the door.

"Thought for a second you weren't going to answer," Arthur greets him drolly.

"Eomer scratches at the door if I don't," Merlin lies. "And I thought for sure you'd brought a bag of gold from your vaults or something, make it worth my while."

"Close," Arthur says with a laugh. "I do have a present for you."

Merlin raises an eyebrow incredulously.

"Not from me," Arthur clarifies. "From Father. An engagement present for you and Morgana."

Merlin shifts his weight, so incredibly uncomfortable he kind of wants to vomit. "Oh. You… He shouldn't have."

"I agree, but he did and I'm here and that's that."

"Indeed." He looks at Arthur's hands. "So?"

"Oh, no, it's outside. It's furniture."

"Indeed!" And though he's joking, Merlin really is intrigued.

Arthur shakes his head. "You're ridiculous. Where do you want it?"

Merlin blinks. "Erm. Not here."

"Why not?"

Merlin thrusts an arm out demonstratively. "Because this place is a dump? Also, my cat has destructive tendencies." Then he gets a better idea, and his eyes light up. "Ooo, let's put it in Morgana's place. Anything would look good in Morgana's place."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Fine. Get your coat on."

Merlin feels his mouth turn up. "Yes, sir." Then he reaches for his nubbiest sweater and fringiest scarf. "Ready."

Arthur actually raises his gaze to the heavens and sighs like a put-upon great-aunt. "Saints preserve us."

Merlin's grinning by now. "Lead the way."

"Fine," Arthur replies, turning to go start down the stairs while Merlin locks his flat behind them. "But don't say I didn't warn you when Gwaine tries to collect money from me."

"Beg pardon?" Merlin calls down to him.

Arthur stops and holds the outside door open, looking at Merlin with a wry sort of twist to his face. "Just don't say I didn't wan you."

"O-kay," Merlin says slowly, glancing between Arthur and the door he's holding open. Then he shrugs and walks through.

At the curb is a van with 'Pendragon Industries' emblazoned on the side.

Merlin stops short. "You brought a van? Are you taking the piss?"

Arthur purses his lips. "Wish I was, mate." He walks to the van and heaves open the back. "Ta-da!"

Merlin's eyes fall on a beautiful wooden desk in the corner. "Oh!" he exclaims. "That's bloody gorgeous!"

Arthur looks at him, surprise clear on his features. "Yeah?"

Merlin can't help but lean up and run his fingers over the surface, down one of the legs. "Yeah, it's really lovely, mate."

"Well, too bad, because Father got you a chaise instead." Arthur gestures to the other side of the bed, where there's a nice, austere chaise that Merlin wouldn't dare sit on in a million years.

"Oh! Sorry."

"Don't be, I bought the desk for myself, today, at the same estate sale."

"Did you, now?"

"Yes. And it's nice to finally have my outstanding tastes recognised."

Merlin rolls his eyes. "Ingrate."

"Do you want the chaise or not?"

"No, I want the desk! I need a desk. Because—" He stops himself. What the hell is he thinking, telling Arthur any of this?

But of course Arthur doesn't let it go. "Because?"

Merlin avoids his gaze, trying to think of a diversion, but Arthur doesn't let up, and Merlin finally meets his eyes and tells half of the truth. "I'm a writer. A failed one, but a writer nonetheless, and… I dunno. It just seems like, maybe, just maybe, if I had a desk…"

He trails off, feeling foolish, but Arthur's voice is surprisingly kind. "I understand."

"I doubt that," Merlin mutters, feeling his ears aflame.

Arthur covers his heart with a gloved hand. "You wound me."

"You're a tosser."

"Yeah, but I have fabulous taste in desks."

"I blame the homosexual gene."

Arthur laughs so hard he bends forward a little, leaning on the edge of the van. "Please say that within earshot of my father. It would make my life so much more entertaining."

"Well, seeing as that's what I'm here for, to entertain you—"

"Oh Lord, can we just get on with it? I have a desk to settle into my house, but have this pesky chaise I have to get rid of first."

"Sure, sure," Merlin says agreeably. They head round opposite sides to the cab doors "Shotgun," Merlin calls out facetiously.

Arthur waits until they're climbing in the cab to respond. "There go my hopes of strapping you down in the back."

"Kinky."

Arthur throws up his hands. "Gwaine is never going to let me live this down."

"All right, you really must explain that now. Gwaine, what?"

Arthur shakes his head. "Oh, no, I am not getting caught up in this nonsense."

Merlin decides to throw him a rope. "Bet that I was secretly a homosexual?"

Arthur turns to him, honest surprise on his face. "You're right clever."

Merlin rolls his eyes. "It wasn't exactly difficult, Watson. Just drive."

"Speaking of secretly gay—"

"And tell Gwaine that he's not nearly attractive enough to turn me."

"Oh, he'll never believe that."

"Well, you'll just have to be very convincing."

"He's very attractive, Merlin."

" _You_ shag him, then. Oh, wait, you already have done!"

"And again. So funny."

"I _do_ try."

Morgana's place is just as clean and foreboding as Merlin left it. She must have a service, he thinks. Lifestyles of the rich and famous.

"Any day now, Merlin."

"What?" Merlin says, startled out of his contemplations. He looks towards where Arthur is stood in the doorway, the chaise propped against the doorframe. "Oh."

"Where should we put this surprisingly heavy thing?"

"Erm…" Merlin has no earthly idea. "Let's put it over there," Merlin says finally, gesturing vaguely to his left.

Arthur comes and stands next to him, arms crossed. "You're sure?"

"Yes?"

"Why did that sound like a question?"

"Because Gwaine is clearly wrong about me. I have zero interior decorating skills."

"Neither does he."

"Yeah, but bisexuals are, like, in a no-man's land of fulfilling whatever stereotypes they want."

"Like the one where they end up heterosexual?"

Merlin snorts. "Don't be unkind."

"Remember who you're talking to."

"Right. Shall we move this furniture, then, instead of standing about gossiping like old ladies?"

"You mean queens?"

"Shut _up_ and lift. Put all those muscles to some use."

"Why, Merlin, I'm flattered."

"You flash them everywhere. Hard to miss."

"That cuts me deeply."

"I'm sure."

"Use some of that hot air to help me, then."

"Only if you say please," Merlin says, bending down to heft up an end of the chaise.

Arthur spares him a glance, and there's a twinkle in his eye. Merlin feels slightly lightheaded, and blames it on the heaving lifting. "Not a chance."

"Oh, _balls_. Balls, bollocks, dancing nancy _balls_."

Arthur kicks at the tires of his van, which is very much stuck between two parked cars, not enough room for a cat to manoeuvre in between. Well, maybe a cat. But only a cat, until the next morning at least.

Merlin's just laughing, his breath coming out in huge clouds into the cold night air. "Clearly you don't drive this thing often?"

Arthur shakes his head. "Never, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I just did this one because… because of the desk."

Merlin is too cold to care. "Well, it's been lovely but I've got to get walking before I freeze."

"I told you—"

"—to bring a coat, yes, yes, you're very smart."

"I'll walk with you."

"I don't need—"

"Like I'm going to sit here in the van all night? You're better entertainment than no entertainment at all."

"Gosh, you are a silver-tongued wordsmith. It's very hard to understand how you're single."

"I should say the same about you, Mr Failed Writer."

"Oi, I will have a novel out someday. Maybe a book of short stories." Hell, at this point, he'd settle for a well-read blog.

"Oh," Arthur says. "Yes, I'm sure you will. You just need your muse to wake back up."

"Hah. I'm not sure my muse ever existed."

Arthur clears his throat, and Merlin realises his error. Arthur had meant Morgana.

"Oh God, this is awkward."

Arthur chuckles. "Do let's just change the subject, then."

"That would be splendid. We can't stop talking, though, because otherwise my face will freeze."

"Yes, I have no doubt. You look incredibly cold."

"That's because I _am_ incredibly cold."

"That scarf is ridiculous."

"Hey, it was my mum's!"

"Well, she must be freezing, then."

"She's dead," Merlin replies, pleased with how matter-of-fact it sounds.

Arthur doesn't take it so well, though. "Oh, Jesus. Sorry, mate."

Merlin shrugs. "Thanks. It's been a couple years, now, so I won't burst into ugly tears or anything."

"Well, that's reassuring."

"Mm-hmm."

"If it helps, mine's dead, too."

Merlin feels his brow furrow. "Oh, I'm so sorry. How long?"

"Since I was born. When I was born," he clarifies. "In… in the house that Gwen lives in now, actually. Father won't even drive past it, so he gave it to me and I tried to give it to Gwen after, you know…"

"Breaking her heart by declaring you wanted to be a ballet dancer?"

"Ha bloody ha."

"Indeed."

"But she's pure of heart or something and insists on paying rent. It's all going into an account for when they have kids, of course."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"Well, that explains why your dad's so… Erm…"

"You can say it."

"Emotionally constipated."

Arthur laughs out loud. "That's what Gwen calls me, actually."

"I was trying to be kind."

"Well, I really must inform you that you failed."

"Oh?"

"Spectacularly."

"Damn. And I was so hoping to get into your good graces."

"Trying to woo me, then, are you?"

"Oh yes. I've always had a thing for arseholes."

"Gwaine certainly seems to think so."

Merlin huffs. "Gwaine wishes so, because then he'd have a chance."

Arthur laughs outright. "I think Gwaine has his sights set elsewhere, actually."

"Oh?" This honestly intrigues Merlin. What kind of person would get Gwaine to settle down? Merlin wants to meet them.

"Yes. Also he's not keen on chasing straight boys for very long. It gets rather old after a while, you see."

"Ah."

There's a not so comfortable silence. Merlin doesn't know quite why he says what he says next, only that it seems the time. "I've thought about it," he admits, his throat actively trying to shove the words back down even as they're coming out.

"You've…" Arthur trails off, looking at Merlin like he's just solved a very complicated physics problem. "Oh, Merlin," he says quietly.

"What?" Merlin says, a little too loudly, suddenly defensive. "Hasn't everybody? Hasn't everybody seen—" _You_ , he thinks suddenly. "—a fit bloke smile at them and thought, 'Yeah, all right'?"

"Well… not _everybody_. Just most boys when they see me, is all."

Merlin wishes with sudden vehemence that Arthur would quit reading his mind. It's getting rather annoying. "You're an arse."

"I'm being serious."

"A serious arse."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Someday you'll realize you're not funny."

"And someday you'll realize you're not that good looking."

"Nonsense. I have all the boys in the world throwing themselves at me."

"You're also heir to a giant company and worth millions of pounds."

"Which I don't really want."

Merlin snorts. "Sure."

"No, really," Arthur insists, causing Merlin to meet his eyes. "I mean, I won't say the money isn't nice, but I'd rather be using it for… other things."

"Oh? Like?"

"Never you mind."

"Oh no, none of that. You now know about my failure as a writer, so out with it."

"Well."

"Arthur."

"It's ridiculous. _Mer_ lin."

"I don't care."

Arthur studies him for a moment. "Alright, then. I've always wanted to own a bookshop."

Merlin stops short. "A bookshop."

Arthur huffs and starts to walk away. "Told you it was ridiculous."

Merlin catches at his arm. "No, I just—well, yes, it is ridiculous, because you're hardly the bookish type."

"I know that, all right? I know. But I… I like bookish types, much to my chagrin, and I like small business, much to my father's, and I understand what it would take to keep that sort of thing going. I like the idea of a quiet space, a loud space sometimes, full of people talking about big ideas, little ideas. No ideas at all." He smiles, a small private smile. "Kind of like Gwen's kitchen."

The breath is tight in Merlin's lungs. He swallows. "That sounds lovely."

Arthur's face morphs into a grimace. "Yeah, well, it's not going to happen. I have my father's business to take care of—although Morgana wants it far more than I ever would, but Father's too… well. You know." He waves it all off. "And besides, I only have the head for the business end. I'd need somebody to, well…"

"Be bookish?"

"Exactly."

"Be bookish yet not be driven completely round the bend by you and your polos?"

"Merlin."

"Not likely," Merlin says, but he's smiling. And when he meets Arthur's gaze, there's something there. Something real. Something true.

Something Merlin doesn't even want to contemplate.


	7. 6

'[H]ow hard the "Never going to be Jane Brady" part of coming out is...' ~James K Collins

When he gets home, finally, he pretty much falls into bed. Then he just lies there. He's exhausted, wrung out, but… doesn't want to sleep.

Helpfully, Eomer climbs up on his chest, butting against Merlin's chin. Merlin pets him until his limbs feel irresistibly heavy, then rolls onto his side, and the cat scampers away.

But Merlin's eyes are still stubbornly open.

He forces them shut, wills himself to breathe evenly, and just lets it happen.

They're only dreams, after all.

He's cooking this time, which is a bit weird but he goes with it, obviously. He's cooking and then there's somebody else in the kitchen, somebody crowding against his back, crowding him into the counter and reaching for the spoon. Merlin feels affectionate laughter bubbling up in his chest; he waits as his partner takes a lick then shakes his head.

"What?" Merlin asks with a grin. "Too much coriander?"

He gets a bite on his neck for his trouble. He goes with it, tilting his head back, letting the bite turn into a lazy trail of kisses that send heat pinging everywhere along his limbs. "Never too much coriander," he murmurs. The spoon slips back into the pot.

The hand on his stomach retreats for a moment, and Merlin's about to protest when he hears the Wagner he'd had on come to an abrupt halt. The stereo remote slides across the counter and Merlin would protest but there's a hand in his pants and he suddenly can't think of anything but kissing that possibly-too-much-coriander taste out of the mouth still exploring his neck.

Then he gets an even better idea.

He reaches down and back, a bit hesitant but feeling incredibly bold all the same, to grab his partner's bum and pull them together tightly, just for a bit, before he turns and drops to his knees.

He hears a pleased grunt above him, and feels his heart racing in his chest. He's always had a distinct and true fondness for oral sex, so this isn't that big of a leap, but the cock shadowing the sleep pants in front of him is…formidable.

He noses at it, inhaling the strange yet familiar scent. A hand threads through his hair and he smiles against warm fabric. His lips open almost of their own volition, and an encouraging noise comes from his partner.

"All right, all right," he murmurs, mouthing at the slowly-filling cock in front of him. "You know I'm good for it."

And it's lazy, and it's morning, and he _is_ good for it but he wants to take his time. He teases a bit more with the pants on, until the fabric is damp and the hand in his hair is a bit more insistent. He reaches up and draws the pants down slowly, tonguing at every space he finds, salty and tangy and so peculiarly on-point. And the whole while, he can smell it, smell the liquid teasing the tip of the cock he just let loose, the evidence of the effect he has on this man. Whoever he is.

He puts off dealing with the actual penis, a little, licking up the sides and kissing the skin around it, letting the pubic hairs scratch lightly against his face. He finally presses kisses onto the head, thinking. It can't be all that difficult, he reasons with himself. Certainly easier than going down on a woman, he thinks, and that makes him smile, gives him a surge of confidence that guides him right down and—

And it's really not that difficult at all, he finds. Or maybe he's just naturally good at it, at least in his dreams, or in these dreams he's been with this man a while and knows what he likes—but in any case, it's merely like writing a story: exposition (the cock becoming fully erect in his mouth as he first sucks at the head then swallows down, inch by inch), rising action (adding suction, hollowing his cheeks, bringing one hand up to help out at the base, the feeling of fingers tight in his hair and his partner having trouble not thrusting into his mouth)… and then climax.

That part is different than he expected—There's far less of a taste involved, until he pulls back and purposefully mouths at the softening member. Then it's hot on his tongue, sharp and new and… and wonderful, Jesus God. He goes back for more, licking up every bit that he can, until his partner pushes him away gently.

He doesn't lean back, though. He leans forward against a pale leg, his hands on his thighs, his cheeks stretched and his jaw pinging—and a satisfied smile on his face.

He feels a thumb trace his mouth, once last time, and he licks at the corner. "Delicious _and_ nutritious," he mumbles, his voice rough.

He can feel the chuckle in his partner. Then he feels himself being pulled up by the shoulders and into a hug. A tight one, as if they're to part forever. Or at least for a very long, very hard while. Merlin feels it keenly when his partner lets go.

"What—" Merlin begins, but he doesn't have to finish because it's all changing around him—flat walls turning into looming trees, doorway turning into the mouth of a cave, sound of the washing becoming the thrumming of a waterfall.

The cave looks creepy and frightening, so it's obviously where he's supposed to go. He rolls his eyes, but the fear he swallows back is genuine.

Then he feels a kiss on the side of his neck, and a gentle push forward. "Wait, I—"

But he knows before he finishes that he's alone. For this bit, he is just Merlin.

He pulls a face, then forces himself to forward. It's just a dream, he reminds himself.

As soon as he enters the cave, shit gets real. It's dark but for random points of illumination without visible origin, and a few feet in he barely misses tumbling down into a huge pit. Probably vipers at the bottom, he thinks wildly. Or garthim.

He picks his way down the tunnel more carefully after that, following the shush of the waterfall. At one point he feels something whoosh past his face, and he ducks instinctively. He glances up just in time to see a small shimmering winged creature flying away from him.

Then it turns back to him, and it smiles. Its teeth are vicious-looking, and its grin even more so. "Oh. Of course," Merlin says out loud. "Of course faeries are little devils. Of course they—are coming after me right this second—"

And then he's running, stumbling over rocks and barbells and something that looks suspiciously like a poster of Judy Garland. He darts a glance behind him after that one, only to see that one creature has become a dozen and he's pretty much fucked.

'I thought faeries were supposed to be _nice_!" he shouts over his shoulder, but he can barely hear it because the rushing of the waterfall is getting louder and louder and—

—and Merlin explodes out a crevice in the wall and goes flying, tumbling down, down, down, into a glittering, frothing pool.

The water is thick, sludgy, and when he surfaces, dragging in a painful breath, he sees that it's—that it's—

"Oh for fucks' _sake_!" he manages to splutter, although it probably sounds more like "Blf pllbut ffftt!"

He's just seen he's swimming in liquid glitter; he's allowed a certain lack of proper enunciation.

The waterfall, which is really a river of glitter running off a cliff over which he cannot see but has no interest in exploring, is to his right, and the faeries are to his left, grinning at him like he's the Sunday roast.

It's only a dream, he thinks again. And he thinks it _hard_.

Then something swoops in straight in front of him, something colourful and swishy and— And it's all fun and games until the feather boas, because they start to tumble and tangle around his legs, his arms, his neck—

Merlin had almost drowned once, for real, when he was two, only to be saved by the neighbours' boy, but he never could remember what it felt like, the water closing over him, his lungs closing up—

He remembers now.

_It's only a dream, it's only a dream_ , he shouts in his head as he feels himself dragged under, heading inexorably towards the cliff. He knows he will not survive the fall. _Wake up, wake up, for fuck's sake, please—_

Merlin jolts straight up in bed, one hand on his mouth.

He feels like he's going to be sick. So much so that he throws the duvet aside and stumbles to the toilet. But no sick comes up. He's just left with a heaving stomach and a torn-up heart.

Something's got to give. It's only been a few days since Christmas, since the day everything changed, and he knows that, knows it in his head. But they've been the longest, most ridiculous days he's had in a long time. Guilt plagues him every second of every day—Except, funnily enough, when he's actually with them, with Gwen and… Arthur. Not to make mention of… the other thing.

Nausea rolls through him again at the thought.

He falls back onto the tile floor and closes his eyes against the sting of tears. He'd give anything to have his mum there.

Except, Merlin knows, covering his eyes with a forearm, his fingers clenching and unclenching, she'd say the same thing Freya had.

_Tell them._

And telling them would take one thing off his plate, for sure. And then Arthur'd be— Well, they'd all be so mad they wouldn't speak to him anymore, so that's the other thing dusted, too. He'd never had any issues with his heterosexuality before Arthur, after all. Sounds reasonable enough.

Merlin rubs at his eyes. He doesn't want to do it. He doesn't want to be without Gwen's hugs and Gwaine's flirting and Leon's steadfastness and— and— and all of them— He wants to keep them. For himself.

But he knows, as surely as he had known he couldn't write his stories anymore, that they're not his to keep.

A few hours of really shitty sleep later, Merlin trundles into a partial shift at the shop. Freya takes one look at him and makes him a hot chocolate with two sugars and extra whipped cream.

"Do I look that bad?"

"Do Ross and Rachel belong together?"

"Okay, you owe me a fag for that alone."

"Fair enough."

First thing she says once they're outside and lit up: "So how's the glitter?"

Merlin chokes on the exhale. "Ex _cuse_ me?"

Freya looks at him like he's got two heads. "I said: How's the girlfriend?"

"Oh. Oh, of course you did." Merlin forces himself to breathe in and out again. "Sorry. I guess I was confused by you not calling her—"

"Yes, yes, I've decided to be respectful today, because you look like shit."

"That's… a nice side effect, I suppose."

"So are we going to talk about it, or are you going to repress it like your DNA demands?"

Merlin can't help but laugh. "Sorry, it's just getting to me."

"It?"

"You know."

"Oh, you mean pretending to be engaged to a woman in a coma? That you've never met? Whose friends all thinks you're divine and perfect?"

"They do not," Merlin protests, thinking of Arthur's haughty looks.

"Merlin, everyone that meets you thinks you're like a cuddly bunny."

"Yeah, cute on Easter but not so much the months afterwards." 

Freya seems slightly impressed. "Wow, you need therapy."

"Probably."

"But mostly you need to tell these people the truth."

"Yeah? And that'll do it?"

"Yeah, course." She regards him thoughtfully. "What else could there be?"

He shifts on his feet. "Nothing."

She pauses, and Merlin feels a bit sick, but she lets it drop. Thank God. "All right, then. Go tell them. After shift is over, go to her house, the—the mother figure, what's her name?"

"Gwen."

"Gwen, yes, go to Gwen's house and tell her first. She'll be the easiest because no matter how mad she gets she won't beat you round the head with a frying pan."

"Her partner might, though."

"The fire-fighter? Nah, mate. Too noble."

"Too right. He'll just look very gravely disappointed, and shut the door behind me on my way out."

The image pains him. He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, which are burning. "I don't wanna."

She softens, and twines an arm around his waist. He leans into it gratefully. "I know, love. I know."

He raises his hand six times before he manages to actually knock.

And once the door opens, he distinctly regrets all of it.

"Ah, mate, good of you to show up!" Gwaine reaches out for his shoulder and tugs him inside. "Come on, it's chilly."

"I don't—" Merlin stops short when he sees that they're all gathered, Gwen and Lance and Leon and Elena and Elyan and—and no Arthur. Merlin breathes out in a rush, suddenly buoyed and ready to do it. Ready to destroy it all.

He steps inside, but when Gwaine tries to take his coat, he puts up a hand. "Listen, everyone." He looks at all of them, once last time, then shakes his head. "I have to tell you—I'm not—I'm really sorry, but I'm not—"

"Gay?" Elena puts in cheerfully.

Merlin sputters. "Beg pardon?"

"We know," Gwen says, undisguised affection in her tone. "Arthur told us."

"And boy did he look disappointed."

"Gwaine!"

"Hang on," Merlin says, trying to get them all to back up. "Why would you think that in the first place? I'm engaged to Morgana!"

"Oh!" Gwen says softly, her cheeks pinking. "Erm…"

Gwaine lets out a snort, then uncrosses his arms and comes to land a hand on Merlin's shoulder. "This group have over-active gaydar, mate. And it would not be the first time Morgana's attracted that sort of attention. But it's not your fault that Gwen likes to collect misfits under her wing."

"Well," Merlin admits, thinking of lorry crashes and kitchen counters, "I might just qualify for that last bit. But I am most definitely, most infinitely, a hundred percent not gay."

Somebody clears their throat. "Well, that's sorted, then," Gwaine says, and this time Merlin is too plotzed to resist when he reaches for Merlin's coat. "Roast?"

Because—of course—it's Sunday. Merlin had completely forgot. He feels like he's been lifted up and shaken, like a snow globe.

It's not the most pleasant feeling.

"Erm, sure."

"Oh, lovely," Elena says, tucking her hand into his elbow and leading him into the kitchen.

"I must warn you, though," Merlin continues sheepishly. "I had an opening shift, so I've been awake since about 3:30 this morning."

Gwen is immediately at his other side. "Oh you poor darling!"

He laughs, but his heart isn't in it. His heart is, in fact, as they sit down and eat a fairly mundane Sunday dinner, quite twisted up in his chest.

It's a feeling he's rather sick of, thanks. He tucks his chin up for a moment, wondering what would happen if he just blurted it out right now, right as they're all oohing and aahing over Gwen's crème brulee. 'Lovely dish, oh and by the way I'm a lying liar that lies. Pass the sugar?'

He feels an elbow nudge his. "You alright?" Leon asks quietly.

Merlin manages a smile, and it's genuine. "I will be, yeah." He takes a deep breath, words piling up in his head—

"Please tell me there's some pudding left."

—and then disappearing into a puff of smoke at the sound of the familiar voice.

"Arthur!" Gwen says, pleased. "You made it!"

"Hello," Arthur says, leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips. Merlin feels am ugly flare in his belly.

"How was the office?" Gwaine asks as Arthur pulls up a chair.

"It was shitty, mate," Arthur answers, a weary, wry smile on his face. "It was really shitty and if you don't mind, I'd like to have a pud then go out on the roof and get a breath of fresh air."

And Merlin watches as they all eat the dessert—He's not a big fan of sweets, but he has a couple bites out of politeness and it is indeed lovely—and everyone talks to Arthur, including him easily into the conversation without mentioning anything vexing. Football, that comes up, and something about Kate Middleton but Merlin loses track when Arthur's tongue peeks out to lick some sugar off his lip.

He clears his throat and looks down at his plate, furious with himself. He doesn't need any more of that nonsense. He needs to tell them, and be out of their lives before he gets too deep to breathe.

"Merlin?"

He looks up to see Arthur's eyes on him, one eyebrow slightly raised. "Erm… sorry?" Merlin says, his ears heating up. "Yes?"

"I said, come outside with me and have a fag."

Merlin is starting to hate that word. "I dunno, that'd be two today." He puts a hand on his belly. "And the first one was less than fulfilling."

"Fine, then, just sit and pine while I have one." Arthur pushes back and stands up.

"I need the toilet," Elena says airily, standing with a swish.

"I'll just start to clean up, here," Gwen says, and Leon and Elyan immediately stand to help her clear up the dishes.

Merlin stands, out of reflex, but doesn't know which way to go. Gwaine leans back, a small smile on his face. "Oh, Merlin, for pity's sake, go with Arthur. He doesn't take anyone else up there."

Merlin glances at Arthur, startled. And is startled to see Arthur _blushing_. "You don't?"

"Shut it, all of you," is Arthur's very reasoned response. "Come if you'd like, or don't. I don't care." And he stalks off.

Merlin looks after him, feeling even more off-kilter. Then he feels a shove on his shoulder. He turns to see Gwaine with a surprisingly serious look on his face. "Just go, mate. He's not a bad chap."

Merlin is yet again startled. "I never said he was a bad chap."

"You didn't have to. You just flinch every time he comes in a room."

Merlin is absolutely gobsmacked. "I do not!"

Gwaine shakes his head. "I know you're not a homophobe, so just go out there and sit with him. Let him rant at you about his day. God knows he needs it."

"I don't believe you, but all right," Merlin says, with a bit of a snippy tone.

Gwaine just rolls his eyes, but Merlin leaves him to it. He's annoyed, now; he doesn't know when he turned into Arthur's babysitter, but if they think he's going to magically see the error of his heterosexual ways because of some quality time with a poncy git, they can think again.

Once he's out the window, though, he finds himself pausing. Arthur is sat, his legs out in front, his arms resting on bent knees, with a cigarette between his fingers.

Merlin's left hand clenches fitfully. He tightens it into a fist, and says the first thing that comes to his mind. "Thanks ever so much for clearing up the misconceptions about my sexual predilections."

Arthur's smile isn't exactly unkind, but it's not comforting, either. "You're welcome. Now you're free to marry my sister without any kind of homosexual scandal hanging over you."

Merlin is actually quite offended. "You say that like I should've been upset by the accusation of it."

Arthur turns, then, at least his head, for a moment. "Weren't you?"

"No!" Merlin insists. Lies. Add one on the pile, he thinks.

Arthur snorts and turns back to the skyline. "Me thinks the lady doth protest too much."

"You're an absolute tosser."

"Tell me something I don’t know," Arthur says, sounding like a bored thirteen year old girl.

But Merlin can't let it go. "I wouldn't have a _problem_ with being gay!"

"Oh, really?"

"No! It's—it's fine! Being gay is lovely! Rainbows! Parades!"

"If you mention glitter, so help me God—"

Merlin winces involuntary. "Nobody was going to mention glitter."

"Just checking. It's usually on the list."

"I'll be happy to never see another speck of glitter in my life."

"Definitely heterosexual, then."

"Yes, there's your proof."

Arthur shakes his head. "Nobody was demanding proof, Merlin."

"Well, it certainly feels like it." _Whenever I'm with you_. Merlin runs a hand over his face. “Here’s the thing, though,” he starts, something heady firing through his veins. “The thing. Is.” He expects—wants?—Arthur to interrupt, to laugh, to _something_ but instead he’s just waiting, looking at Merlin with one eyebrow slightly raised. Merlin puts a hand to his gut and pushes the words out before he can take them back. “I really, _really_ like heterosexual sex.”

For a moment, it’s just Arthur’s eyebrows. That’s all Merlin can see, as they climb up his forehead and make a bid for further. Then he just sees Arthur’s neck because he has thrown his head back in laughter.

“Oi!”

Arthur doesn’t say he’s sorry, but he does hold up a hand until the laughs subside. Into hiccoughs. Which clearly annoy him but not enough to take the shine of amusement out of his eyes.

“And you think I don’t?”

Merlin is quite literally taken aback, finding himself leaning back and away from Arthur while staring at him in shock. "You—you _what?_ "

Arthur shrugs. "Well, yeah. I mean, you put a tape in the VCR and press play, it's going to work."

"Classy."

"But true."

"Outdated."

"Yes, and thank you ever so much for that reminder."

"Welcome."

"Still true, though."

"And I still don't understand."

Arthur sighs, not unkindly. "Look, I know we call it 'sexuality,' this being gay or straight or whatever business, but really, sometimes, it's not about that."

Merlin raises an eyebrow. Inside, he's—churning. "I have seen enough of the internet to know that's not true."

"Okay, it's not _only_ about that." Arthur shoots him a sideways glance. "And we'll have to compare websites at some point, because I'm now certain the ones you're going to are rubbish."

"Shut it. What else is it about, then?"

Arthur takes a breath, contemplating the skyline in front of them. "It's about first dates. And second and third dates. It's about meeting parents and having two toothbrushes in one cup and holding hands in the park. And it's about things like waking up in the morning and being drawn _to_ the person next to you, not away, despite their morning breath."

And Merlin's charmed by it, this picture. Of course he is. It fills him with good feelings, with warmth. But that's hardly the point, is it? "And the sex?" he insists, perhaps a bit stubbornly.

Arthur is matter-of-fact about it, though. Mostly. "Yes, well, the sex has to be good in any relationship, right?"

Merlin shakes his head impatiently. "No, I mean – is it better? With—men?"

Arthur's a little surprised by the question, clearly. "Well… of course."

"Of course?"

"Yeah, of course. First of all, it's with somebody you could see yourself with for real, which is always better. Not that casual sex isn't fun, mind, and absolutely has its place, but relationship sex is—" He shrugs. "Better."

"Okay," Merlin agrees easily. He's had that. At least he thinks he has. "But—but the sex itself—"

"It's better."

"I mean—"

And he must have a little expression of disgust on his face, because: "What, you afraid of a little mess?" Arthur says with a grin, shoving his shoulder into Merlin's.

Merlin shakes his head. "No! I'm not! I'm just afraid—" Oh fuck.

Arthur sobers. "I know."

"No, you—"

"Yeah, I do, I know what you're going to say, and I have to tell you, you sound a bit like a blushing virgin on her wedding night."

Merlin does, indeed, know he's blushing. "Sod off."

"Well, here's the truth: The rules are the same. It only hurts if you're doing it wrong."

"Which I would undoubtedly be doing," Merlin mutters. Then he realizes what he's just said, and the tips of his ears burn bright-hot. His fingers itch for a pen.

Arthur's opening his mouth, surely to say something pitying and half-heartedly reassuring, which Merlin wouldn't be able to begin to suffer through, so he stands instead. "I've got to go."

Arthur makes a surprised noise, but when Merlin squares his jaw and looks him in the face, he just looks resigned. He nods. "I'm sure you do. And so do I."

Merlin nods at him. "Bye, then."

"Bye."

Merlin turns towards the window, bends down to climb through it, but is stopped by the sound of Arthur's voice, quiet and sure, oh so sure.

"You just have to find a person who would do it right. Who would do it right because they give a damn about you, as a person. As… as Merlin. That's all there is to it."

_Yeah, that's it_ , Merlin thinks, looking at Arthur's profile, looking out over the grey skyline, feeling much closer to the edge than he actually is. His brain is overloaded with pictures of mornings in bed, the feeling of being full, being connected with someone, being warm.

He nods one last time and climbs through the window.

_Easy._

"Eomer," he says quietly to the cat that night, "please don't let me fall asleep. Please. Or at the very least, could you do one of your midnight tears around the flat, so I don't sleep for very long?" Eomer noses at his cheek, then settles in. Unhelpful, as usual. "Cheers," Merlin says.

He's asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

And here's the funny thing: Drowning can sometimes turn out all right.

All he remembers about nearly dying when he was two is wandering towards the deep end, thinking it'd be a lark, then the sight of the ladder on the other end of the pool. The soul deals with trauma its own way.

Merlin hopes against hope that in a few years, he won't remember this feeling of being choked by a river of glitter. That he'll have figured everything out, that it'll all be a hazy, dreamy memory.

Because right now, even though it's a dream—it fucking _hurts_.

But suddenly, there's a hand reaching down through the water.

Merlin pulls, pulls, _pulls_ until his heavy arm gets through the sludge and up towards salvation—and misses on the first pass. He feels himself sinking from the effort, and wants to scream, but he can't _breathe_ —

Then there's another hand. And another. Soon there are dozens, all offering help, and all Merlin has to do is try a little harder—push a little more—

The shoreline is muddy, and sparkly, and he's never seen anything more beautiful. His lungs burn as they get a sudden overabundance of oxygen, and he wretches a few times helplessly, but there's a soothing hand on his back and he feels his heart slowing.

When he raises his head, it's to quite a little crowd, and he struggles to focus. He sees Gwaine, and Arthur—of course, Arthur, Merlin thinks; prat has to stick his nose in everywhere it doesn't belong—but he doesn't see his mystery man, his dream lover, his…

He coughs again, and feels the hand on his back again. "All right, love, just let it happen."

The voice.

Merlin's head snaps up, and there at his side, of course, is Arthur.

He nearly throws the cat off the bed with the duvet this time. 


	8. 7

' . . . my storms of emotion have a trick of exhausting themselves.' ~H.G. Wells

"I think I might be gay."

Freya drops the whole stack of plastic cups she'd been carrying. They scatter everywhere, but the sound is nothing compared to the chaos in Merlin's head.

"Merlin," she hisses at him, not unkindly, "you couldn't've warned a girl?"

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not."

"And it's not as though I'm surprised."

"You…" Merlin stops, staring. "Hang on, what do you mean, you're not surprised?"

Her face softens. "Merlin. Dear, sweet Merlin."

"Don't patronize me."

She shakes her head solemnly. "Never."

"I'm no raging poof!"

Freya presses her lips together. "Merlin. What's the fifth track on Lady Gaga's second album?"

Merlin throws his hands up in the air. "Oh for fuck's sake, not you too!"

"Not me too, what?"

Merlin chews on the inside of his cheek for a bit. "Arthur," he finally mumbles.

"Arthur the brother?" Freya says. "Arthur the—" Her mouth opens in a little moue of understanding. "Arthur the gay, attractive, funny brother."

"You forgot stuck up as hell."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, it's true. He is. He's a tosser. He's a snotty English git who doesn't know anything about coffee."

"Merlin, _you_ hardly know anything about coffee."

"Not the point."

"The point being your latent homosexuality, yes, I remember."

Merlin pulls a face. "So _you're_ not surprised. Arthur thought I was gay. The whole lot of them did, actually. I practically had to stage an intervention to dissuade them."

"And how'd that work out?"

Merlin sighs. He can admit it now. "Not a one of them believed me."

She snorts. "This calls for a drink."

"Celebration or mourning?"

She shrugs. "Either. Do you really need to differentiate?"

Merlin throws his hands up. "Not really. 'End, begin, all the same.'"

"And you nag me about _Friends_ references?"

"Hey, at least _The Dark Crystal_ is mildly British."

"Mildly."

"Oh, piss off."

She makes a kissy face at him. "So where are we going tonight?"

"I dunno. Just somewhere quiet? Where I can drink myself stupid in peace?"

She reaches up and slings an arm around his shoulder; he has to slouch a little but he doesn't care. "Sure. There's a place near my flat that'll do just fine."

"You're my favourite."

"Yeah, I know."

Hour Number One finds Merlin stood in Freya's tiny kitchen, leaning against the counter with a salt-shaker in his hand.

"Are you sure we need to drink _before_ we go?" he says, grimacing at the now-empty shot glass in front of him before shoving a lime wedge in his mouth. "And why tequila?"

"Why not tequila?" Freya says with a grin, her lips shiny from alcohol and citrus. "And it's loads cheaper."

"Fair enough. One more, then?"

"Naturally."

"For our health."

"Of course."

It burns going down.

Two citrus wedges later, they kick back on her sofa and watch about a quarter of a _Doctor Who_ episode, drinking sloppy cocktails and gossiping about David Tennant. Merlin feels pleasant all over, warm and safe and ignoring all the things that could possibly stress him out.

Which is, well, pretty much everything outside those four walls.

He knows it can't last. But he holds it tightly in his fist for as long as possible.

Hour Number Two finds Merlin standing stock still in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a very, very gay nightclub.

Freya bats her eyelashes at him. "You know how you said I was your favourite?"

"I take it back."

"Well, it _is_ close to my flat."

Merlin stamps his foot, honest to God. "And you are a _harlot_."

Said harlot is tugging on his arm, propelling him inexorably towards the door, and he's using the tequila as his excuse for not resisting very hard. "If only that were true," she muses as he's pulled closer and closer to the entrance. "What d'you think a harlot makes, these days?"

"Distraction won't work," Merlin warns.

She stops. She looks up at him and puts her hands on his face. They're warm and gentle. "Merlin. It's a fun place for everyone, and a safe place for you."

Merlin is indignant. "Safe?! What if somebody—" He glances over at the people milling about by the entrance, and lowers his voice to a hiss. "What if somebody _hits on me_?"

She sighs a little, then speaks very patiently. "If they're fit, you decide if you want to say yes. If they're not, you continue on with me and we have a grand night out dancing and getting wankered."

He tilts his head. He can hear the thump of the bass and the laughter of the patrons, and it's tempting, oh so tempting. He won't know anyone. He can just have a night of free fun. See if it fits. See what happens. And he has Freya there as backup, just in case.

His heart is still doing a polka in his chest, but— He curls one of his hands around one of hers. "All right, then."

"All right?" Her smile is radiant. 

"Yeah," he says, smiling back. His skin is tingling with something. "Let's go."

Their clasped hands swing as they walk towards the door, and Merlin is suddenly feeling like this could be the first good night he's had in a long, long time.

Hour Number Three finds that to be absolutely, blindingly true. Because it also finds him having been offered many drinks by many happily tipsy people, boys and girls alike, so he's a right fine mood.

And although Merlin can't really dance, despite his newly admitted homosexual longings, he can most definitely let himself get squished into the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor. He just clutches onto Freya like a lifebelt, closes his eyes, and moves against her body and the other bodies around them.

This doesn't lend any credibility to his heterosexuality, he's pretty certain; by any rights he should be stonkingly aroused by the sort of movement going on. But he's drunk and sweaty and can feel the bass reverberate in his chest with his heartbeat and he feels _part_ of something.

And that's a feeling that overcomes all the rest.

After a few songs, Freya lifts her chin to indicate over Merlin's shoulder. "Fit bloke checking you out," she says into his ear. "Ten o'clock."

"That's nowhere near ten o'clock," Merlin says reflexively. "And how fit?"

She looks a little more. "Incredibly, I'd say, but I dunno how your taste runs."

 _Blonde & prattish_, Merlin thinks, then shakes his head and presses into her a little more tightly.

"I don't know either, and I'm not exactly looking to find out tonight."

"But I need the loo, Merlin."

"Oh, well, in that case," Merlin replies wryly, "I'll just go give him a handy in the alley and you can ring when you're ready for me."

Her laugh gets swallowed up by the music but he loves the way her sweaty hair falls back around her shoulders.

"Hang on," she says, her eyes alight, "I can do a little manoeuvre, here…" And she shimmies around until she's in front of him, then turns, her hands on his hips, until they're both facing the same direction, and facing this Mystery Fit Man.

And Merlin sees him.

And sees that, of course, fucking of course, it's Arthur.

Fuck.

Hour Number Four starts off with a bang. Or, rather, with an Arthur closing a hand tightly around Merlin's arm and attempting to haul him off the dance floor.

Merlin isn't having it, though. His brain may be full of colourful fuzz but he knows, _knows_ he's done nothing wrong. "No!" he shouts, loudly enough to be heard amongst the thumping soundtrack. "You have no right or reason to—"

"Yes, I fucking do," Arthur shouts into his ear. "And her name is Morgana."

Merlin's stomach twists in his gut. But dealing with it is postponed because suddenly he's got 110 pounds of fierce standing between him and Arthur. "Let go of him, you Neanderthal!"

And Merlin swears she bears her teeth. But maybe he's just drunk.

Arthur looks down at her, his face an amazing combination of angry and amused. "I beg your pardon?"

"You can beg but you'll get none of it. Not one pardon. I don't care if you're Prince bloody—"

And suddenly she stops, and Merlin realizes his hand has tightened around her upper arm in warning.

"—Arthur."

"Yeah, quite."

"You're Arthur, and I'm—"

"Getting hot and bothered with my sister's fiancé, well spotted."

"Oi," Merlin has to protest, because it's just not fair to lump Freya in with this. "I'm not—we're just dancing—and she's—" But he has no idea how to describe what Freya is to him, none at all, and isn't certain this douche deserves to know, anyway.

"She's a lesbian," Freya says suddenly, slinging her arm up and around Merlin's shoulder. Merlin feels like his head swivels on a pin as he turns to her. But all he gets for his trouble is a yank on his ear so he's facing Arthur again.

"Oi! Yes! She is! Jesus Christ!"

Arthur raises an angry eyebrow. "You can't possibly think I'm that much of an idiot."

"I can possibly," Merlin mumbles, and his ear smarts, and he's angry at everything. "You don't know anything about me, or my friends."

"What?" Arthur shouts through the loud music, leaning towards him, and Merlin rolls his eyes.

"Outside," Merlin shouts back, very much not leaning in, and after a moment of angry face-making, Arthur acquiesces with a nod. Merlin watches him turn and leave and doesn't think about Brutus and Caesar.

Freya catches his arm in the doorway, and pulls him in for a hug. "I'll be inside," she says gently into his neck.

Merlin flips his top. "You're supposed to be my backup!" he says, probably too loudly, because some people turn to them curiously. "Bodie to my Doyle!"

"And that's why I'll be inside," she says firmly. "Now go."

And the little minx bloody _pushes_ him. "The nerve of some people," he says to himself.

"Yes, quite," Arthur agrees from next to him, and Merlin jumps a little, then rolls his eyes again.

"The nerve of _you_ ," he says, punctuating it with a poke at Arthur's chest.

Arthur looks disgusted. "I'm not the one who was dry-humping a woman in public."

"No," Merlin says childishly, "you only do that to men."

Arthur's jaw tightens. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, you wanker!" Merlin says loudly.

Arthur purses his lips. "Fine," he says, pointing towards the back entrance. "If we're going to do this, let's do it."

"Fine," Merlin spits out, then leads the way.

The minute they hit fresh air, his brain starts to unfog. It's just so cold. He reflexively wraps an arm around belly, trying to hold in the warmth of the alcohol and the dancing and the freedom. But he can feel it bleeding out anyway.

He can also feel Arthur watching him, and he bites down on a shiver. He waits for the harangue, but when Arthur finally speaks, he just sounds tired. "What on earth are you doing here, Merlin?"

Merlin is comforted by something still simmering in his veins, something indignant. "What did it look like? And what the hell are _you_ doing here? I mean, I know you're gay and all, but this doesn't really seem like the sort of place you'd frequent."

"Clearly you were too busy making a spectacle of yourself to notice," Arthur snaps, "but Gwaine happens to work here. At the bar."

Merlin is taken aback at that. "Really?"

"Really. So I came here to visit him, and he pointed out your presence. He said people have been more than generous with you tonight, as well."

Merlin puffs up his chest. "Well, I can't help it if I have natural charm, unlike _some_ people." God, he knows he drunk, and pretty soon he's going to say something he shouldn't, but he can't bring himself to _care_ at the moment.

Arthur snorts. "Yes, very charming. Charming enough to—"

"No!" Merlin protests angrily, hand coming up to cover Arthur's mouth recklessly. "I am not going to listen to you tell me I'm an awful person for being out here having fun. It's been a rotten week, she's my only friend in the whole world, just about, and I don't need you here making me feel any worse than I ready do."

Arthur's fingers wrap strongly around his wrist. Merlin begrudgingly lowers his hand. But Arthur doesn't let go. His face— Merlin would say he looked gutted, if he knew Arthur at all, but it's probably no more than how it reads, which is weary disappointment. "You basically just admitted guilt, Merlin."

Merlin feels his face heat up, despite the cold. "No, I didn't!" Fuck, yes, he did, but not about what Arthur thinks it's about. "You are a twat, and a meddlesome one at that, and I can't believe I ever—"

The cold has sobered him up enough to stop before he finishes _that_ sentence, thank God. But Arthur doesn't let it sit, of course.

"Ever what?"

"Nothing."

"Ever _what_ , Merlin?"

"Ever thought we could be friends!" Merlin fabricates quickly. Half-fabricates. He hates that his life has become a packet of lies. "Clearly Morgana had it right when she cut you out of her life!"

It's really just a shot in the dark, an educated guess from putting pieces together, but Merlin knows the instant he's said it that it cut deeply. Arthur's whole face shuts down. “Oh, so we’re going to play that game, are we?" Arthur says tightly. "Fine, then I get to have a go.”

“Fine,” Merlin says blithely. His fingers are clutching at the air and he hates pretty much everything.

“Fine. How do you think your mother would feel, knowing you have a brilliant head full of stories you _aren’t telling?_ ”

Merlin feels it burn through him, the simmering becoming anger. "You have no idea what it's like to have to worry about where next month's rent is coming from, you spoilt git. But if we're throwing stones," he says harshly, "have you had that conversation with your father yet?”

Arthur's face hardens further, if that's even possible. “You have no idea what it’s like to deal with my father.”

Nothing pisses Merlin off more quickly than entitlement syndrome. “You’re right," he counters pointedly. "I just know that I’d give my right arm to have one.”

Arthur's eyes widen, and Merlin's gut flips. "I didn't—I didn't know," Arthur says, the anger gone from his voice. "I apologise."

And Merlin stops. Stops only thinking of himself, and looks at Arthur's face, really looks at it. It's so carefully constructed over a person who is clearly worn down, clearly not at peace with anything, despite outward appearances, that he feels a spring of pity well up.

He suddenly, and very honestly, feels quite sick to his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

Arthur looks up, surprised. "Merlin…"

"I really shouldn't've said those things. It's just that you're so—you're so—" He throws his hands up in the air. "So _Arthur_."

A corner of Arthur's mouth twitches, Merlin swears it does. "Well, yes. Unfortunately, it's not something I can help."

"No, I hear you're just born that way."

"Oh, a Lady Gaga reference, classy."

Merlin tries to smile. He wraps his arms around himself again, feels his numb toes squish against the fronts of his shoes. "I really didn't come here tonight for anything but a bit of fun with a mate."

He feels more than sees Arthur step closer to him. "And then I dragged you outside and said rude things to you." Merlin is startled to feel a hand on his arm, chafing it lightly. "And now you're freezing, you stubborn idiot."

Merlin can smell him, damn it. "Don't be a dick. Oh, wait, it's in your DNA, my apologies."

He'd continue in that vein, but Arthur is so near him, and so warm— Merlin's eyes flick down to his lips, which part just the littlest bit—

And all he has to do is lean in. The connection is instant, the spark strong, and for a moment the world is suspended, as if on a string.

But only for a moment.

"Jesus Christ," Arthur whispers, and Merlin feels it against his lips, a puff of warm air. He starts to smile, because he likes the feeling, and he's finally getting warm—

But Arthur's pushing back, back and away, a stricken look on his face. "Fuck, I'm sorry, Merlin. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't've done that."

Merlin comes up short. He's fairly certain he's the one that had done that. "Arthur, I—"

"No, it's inexcusable. You're just here having fun, you're straight, and you're bloody engaged to my sodding sister."

"…I am," Merlin says, the words tasting like ash. He'd give nearly anything to be able to tell the truth, he thinks recklessly for a moment—but the one thing he would have to give up is the one thing he now can't imagine living without.

His chest aches. He crosses his arms in front of it, rubs his arms. His mind is a rush of sound, of noise, but no words.

"And I'm an idiot," Arthur says on a sigh, and Merlin's not sure he heard correctly. "Let's just go back inside. I'll have Gwaine make you something warm and you can go back to dancing with—What was her name? I'm afraid we never got properly introduced—"

"Her name is Freya," says a voice from the doorway, and they both turn to see said Freya hugging herself. "It's colder'n a witch's tit out here and you don't look about to kill each other, so I'd say we're ready to go back in, yeah?"

Merlin glances at Arthur, who looks back at him. "Alright?"

Merlin feels his fingernails cutting into the palm of his left hand. "All right."

Top of the Fifth Hour finds Merlin rather wishing he had never ventured out of bed that morning. He's got dried sweat all over him, making him itchy, he's tired, making him whiny, and he doesn't know what the fuck to do. With any of it.

The drink Gwaine has concocted for him is almost worth the rest, though. It's minty and warm, almost too warm considering the heat of the club, but Merlin relishes the burn.

"That's my night, then," Arthur says, now that Merlin and Freya are settled in near the very back of the club, the back part of Gwaine's section of the bar.

Gwaine raises an eyebrow at him. "Yeah? I thought you said you had nothing—"

"I'm all in," Arthur says firmly. He turns to Freya and gives a little bow, no joke. "Lovely to meet you. Next time I promise I will be in a better mood."

"Not likely," Merlin mutters.

Arthur rounds on him. "I already apologised, but I'll do it again if that's what you—"

"No, please, God no," Merlin cuts him off. He can't seem to look up from his drink. His ears are on fire. "It's fine. It's really—" He finally meets Arthur's gaze, and his heart jumps like it's been tased. "It's fine."

Arthur regards him for a moment, and Merlin… wants to see a lot of things that aren't there, surely. Then Arthur nods, his jaw tight, and leaves.

Merlin doesn't realize he's watching him go until Freya pokes at him. "You didn't tell me he was _that_ good looking."

Merlin glares at her. "He's not."

She gives him a rather pointed look.

"Alright, alright, he is, but he's not… my type," he finishes lamely.

"Oh, psht. You don't even know what your type is."

"How about tall, dark, and handsome?" Gwaine cuts in, a huge leering grin on his face, and Merlin has got to laugh. And once he starts, he can't stop. It rushes out of him in a wave until he's hiccoughing and wiping at his eyes.

"No?" Gwaine says, feigning disappointment. "Shame."

Merlin eyes him, then takes the chance. "I heard you were already taken, anyway."

Genuine surprises flashes across Gwaine's face. "How—"

Merlin throws him a bone, which has the added bonus of throwing Arthur under the bus. "Arthur."

"Fucking arsehole."

"That's what I keep saying."

"Then he also told you that it's very unrequited."

"Well…"

"So you don't have to worry."

"I don't have to…" Merlin blinks, confused. His brain takes a moment to muddle through it all, and then finally, like a flash— "Oh! You're in love with Morgana!"

Gwaine groans. "Oh Jesus Christ, he didn't tell you who it was?"

"No. I think he actually values your friendship quite a lot."

"And I value yours, Merlin, honestly. I'm so sorry, I'm not—I'd never—" And he's reaching out to Merlin's arm, and Merlin thinks offhand that it's a shame he's not really attracted to Gwaine, because he's possibly the best person Merlin's ever met.

"Gwaine," he interrupts, his voice threaded with affection. "Gwaine, it's all right."

Gwaine stops, his hand on Merlin's wrist. "It is?"

"It so totally is." He hesitates, tempted to just spill the whole thing out, but that wouldn't be fair to Gwaine, really, Merlin reasons. Instead, he turns his palm upward and clasps Gwaine's wrist. "I understand, you know?"

Relief flashes palpably across Gwaine's face. "Thank Christ. Future Christmases are going to be awkward enough." And he grins. Merlin can still see the shadows under his eyes, but he understands them now.

Being in love is no walk in the bloody park.


	9. 8

"Then you must tell 'em dat love ain't somethin' lak uh grindstone dat's de same thing everywhere and do de same thing tuh everything it touch. Love is lak de sea. It's uh moving' thing, but still and all, it takes its shape from de shore it meets, and it's different with every shore." ~Zora Neale Hurston

The thing about people being in hospital, Merlin thinks as he looks around the canteen table at the motley crew he's somehow grown to love like no other, is that it gets rather hilarious after a while.

Same bad food. Same exhausted nurses. Same awful clichés.

It's the best time Merlin's had with stories in a long while, though, that's for sure. Some mornings he'll come in before his shift and just sit, watching families torn apart or reunited, watching miracles and tragedies. Working out their stories in his head. It's delicious, and rude, and he adds it to the pile of things that will be ruined once Morgana wakes up.

Which will be soon, if the doctors are correct. Her brain waves are improving, or something like that, and it's any day now, supposedly.

So now, more often than not, it's not just Merlin alone in her room, in the halls, in the canteen. Lance has become his partner in weird hours, for one, and although they sit together in silence for long periods, it's comfortable, comforting.

The others surprise Merlin in these quiet hours, too. For instance, Leon has an undiscovered talent for getting canteen coffee to taste decent. Gwaine has a knack for guessing which patient is sleeping with which visitor, although that's not too much of a stretch. Elyan likes to doodle, as he calls it, but really they're gorgeous line drawings of scenes around them, at angles you'd never think to take. Elena never fails to make everyone around her feel just the little bit brighter, with her smile and her hair and her effervescence.

And Gwen— Well, nobody hugs like Gwen. Full stop. The end.

Then there's Arthur. Who's rarely there, really, unless he's there when Merlin's not. He works hard, Gwen says if anyone dares bring it up. 

So of course, the day after Merlin drunkenly accosts him in a back alley, he walks right in and sits down with them where they're having rubbish coffee in the canteen. Sits down into the only open chair, which is, of course, between Merlin and Gwen.

"Heya," Gwen says to him quietly, reaching over to put her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. He smiles at her gratefully, and Merlin can't help but be jealous of what they have, platonic though it might be at this point. There's something to be said for being able to see your history in the faces of your friends.

"Damn, Arthur, you look like hell," Gwaine says companionably. "Did you go out on the pull after all?"

Arthur leans into Gwen's hand a little, closing his eyes and shaking his head. There's a tic in his jaw. "Nah, mate. Went home and went to sleep."

And Merlin can tell he's lying. They all probably can, but he can't not say something. "You alright?" he asks quietly.

One of Arthur's eyes opens and looks at him. "Why, Merlin, I didn't think you cared."

"I don't," Merlin says, feeling his lips twitch. "I'm only asking because it's polite."

"Ah, well, in that case, I'll politely decline to disclose the answer."

Merlin arches an eyebrow. "Yeah? That embarrassing?"

Arthur rolls his eyes shut again. "No."

"Which means yes!" Gwaine chimes in. "Oh, this is getter better and better!" He puts his chin in his hands. "Do tell."

"It's nothing!" Arthur says, sitting up and giving them all a good glare. He rubs a finger along the rim of his cup of canteen coffee. Merlin tracks the movement absently. "I'm just— not sleeping well."

"That's all?" Merlin says. "Take some medicine. Alcoholic or otherwise."

"That's not all, you twit. I've just—I've been having these really, really… strangely realistic dreams."

Merlin's brow furrows with concern despite himself. "Nightmares?"

"Decidedly not," Arthur says wryly.

"Dirty dreams!" Gwaine crows. "Excellent!"

Arthur blushes, and it's the most absurdly amusing thing Merlin's seen ever, and he's grinning before he fully comprehends the rest of what Arthur's saying.

"…not even that dirty, they're just—so vivid. Dreams of me living with someone, some skinny bloke with no face, who likes coriander and to be the big spoon and…" He flushes again. "Blow jobs before breakfast, you know. Or _as_ breakfast." He smirks a little, finally. "'Delicious _and_ nutritious.'"

Merlin's hands have frozen around his coffee cup. He can't feel his toes. His fingers.

His heart.

_Like ripples on a pond._

The blessing had turned out to be a curse again, after all.

"I've got to go," he says instantly, standing clumsily, nearly upending the table in his haste to escape.

"All right?" Gwaine says. Merlin looks down at them, around at all their caring faces, and his heart jabs at his ribs.

"Yeah, I'm—I'll be fine. I just—" He jerks his thumb towards the door. "Later, yeah?"

His left hand shakes the whole tube ride.

Ignoring the cat completely, he goes straight to the book in which he'd stashed his writing ( _Shakespeare's Complete Works_ ; let's just say he he's not without a sense of blasphemy) and quickly scans the scribbled words he'd uttered out loud so few days ago.

_That night, Merlin starts having a series of dreams. But not just any dreams. No, these are vivid dreams of what his life would be like with a man. And not just any man, of course. A perfect man, a man perfect for Merlin. Because in these dreams, Merlin is not victim to his own uncertainties. Or over-thinking. Or cares about the outside world._

_It's only him, and this man, and their life._

Merlin crumples the page into a ball, throws it at the wall, and curses loudly. "No! This isn't bloody happening! First off, there is no such thing as a perfect man, and second off, there's no way in hell it's Arthur fucking Pendragon!"

He stands there, arms crossed, his brain ticking like a time bomb. This, he reminds himself angrily, is the reason he'd quit fucking with fate in the first place. Because it fucks _back._ But he can't figure out how to fix it, how to reverse it without unthreading something. Eomer starts to twine around his legs, he's stood there for so long.

But in the end, he can see no other option.

Finally, resigned to tempting the powers that be one more time, he picks up the ball of smushed paper, smoothes it out on his kitchen table, and, swearing this will be the last of it, looks for a pen.

_And on this day, Merlin learns that what one discovers as a child is likely to stay true for the rest of one's life. And he stops dreaming impossible things._

He keeps writing, scribbling down all the possible permutations so there's no possible misinterpretations by whom- or what _ever_ thinks this is all very funny indeed.

Then he looks around furtively, ducks his head, and begins to read aloud.

When it's over, he feels like he's just run a bloody marathon. Or been fished out of a river of glitter, he thinks sardonically. He's about to fall down onto his couch for a bit of a nap when there's a knock on his door.

He rubs his eyes with his hand as he walks over and opens it. "Who is it, for the love of—Oh. Arthur."

Arthur's looking tired still, so tired, and Merlin's heart—Well, he'd rather not discuss what his heart's doing at that moment, thanks very much.

Arthur looks past Merlin, his expression a bit suspicious. "Who were you just talking to?"

Merlin sighs and gestures Arthur inside. "Myself," he admits as he shuts the door behind them.

Arthur turns to him, a sceptical look on his face. "I figured you'd use the cat as an excuse."

"No, I think I even scared him away with my ranting." He shrugs, too strung out to be self-conscious. "I might be a little bit crazy."

"Might be?"

Merlin glares. "Did you come here just to deride me?"

"Deride? Did you swallow a dictionary?"

"And thank you for proving my point."

"Ah, no," Arthur says, suddenly awkward, which is an incredibly strange look on him. Merlin doesn't like it so much, especially when he doesn't understand it. "I came here to give you a gift. An engagement gift."

Merlin feels so sick he actually brings a hand to his belly for a moment. "You really shouldn't have."

Arthur shrugs. "I did anyway. Now just take it."

And he holds out a small, slender box.

"If this is a necklace," Merlin says, his eyes crinkling with mirth, "I think you've got the wrong flat."

Arthur shakes his head, a corner of his mouth quirking up. "It's not. It's just… it's just something I thought you'd appreciate."

Merlin shoots him a questioning look as he opens it up. "Appreciate as in it's a really clever joke, or— Oh, holy shit."

Because inside the box is a black and platinum Parker Duofold, a fountain pen the likes of which Merlin has merely gazed at through shop windows his whole life. Gazed at _longingly_.

He looks up at Arthur, his mouth open and his heart in his throat.

"I, er—had them grind down the nib? So it'd be good for a leftie straight away?" Arthur gestures at Merlin's hands.

Merlin stands there, staring at Arthur, his fingers tight and motionless around their precious, precious cargo. He'll swear later that his heart actually makes a noise, like a _ska-doosh_ , and then a thud.

He's honestly surprised Arthur doesn't hear it.

"You don't like it," Arthur says finally, and Merlin realizes he's let the silence go on for far too long.

"No! God, Christ no, it's—Arthur. It's perfect. I—" He feels like words are skittering around in his brain, scuttling just out of reach. He looks up and holds Arthur's gaze, hoping that will be adequate. Knowing it never could be. "Thank you."

Arthur makes a gruff noise. "It's nothing, really, I just… saw it."

"You just saw it."

"Merlin…"

"A four hundred pound pen."

"Three-fifty," Arthur protests. "I knew the shop owner."

But Merlin's heart is full, full of hope and despair simultaneously, because Arthur's face— "You're being ridiculous again."

Arthur's expression tightens, and Merlin falters. "No, I'm not. I just wanted to get you something, because—"

Never let it be said he's not persistent in spelling out his own demise. "Because why?"

"Because you're marrying my sister! And she's—" He rubs a frustrated hand over the back of his neck. "She's very lucky, alright?"

Merlin can practically hear the cracks forming in his heart. "Alright."

There's an awkward silence, then Arthur nods. "Well. Glad you like it. I'll just—" He indicates over his shoulder. "See you at the hospital tomorrow?"

"Yeah, all right."

And Arthur gets out the flat door and down the stairs before Merlin manages to unstick his feet. He steps out into the hallway. "Arthur!"

Arthur turns, looks up at Merlin. His face is more drawn than Merlin can recall seeing it. Merlin hates that he's had a hand in making it so. "Yes?"

Merlin's clutching onto the pen so tightly his knuckles are white. "Can you— Can you think of any reason why I shouldn't marry your sister?"

Arthur is absolutely still, like the perfect statue, except for a muscle in his jaw. Finally, he shakes his head once, shortly. "No. No, I can't."

Merlin feels his eyes start to burn. "Goodbye, then."

Arthur hesitates, but just for a split second. "Goodbye."

Merlin can't watch him go. He just can't. He stomps back into his flat, throws shut the door, and hurls himself onto his bed like he's seven.

Because he _feels_ like he's seven again. Feels like everything he's ever found happy about this world has just been snatched from him.

As it will be, the moment Morgana wakes up.

And he's not even sure what he wants, really. He just knows he wants a better ending than this.


	10. 9

"Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go by any rules. They're not like aches or wounds; they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material." ~F. Scott Fitzgerald

"I don't want to talk about it," he says warningly to Freya first thing the next day. "I want to have a normal day, make some coffee, steal a fag, gossip about customers. That alright with you?"

She studies him for a moment, then reaches up to pinch his cheek. "That'd be lovely."

He bats her hand away. "Good."

And it is good, really good. Merlin doesn't spill any drinks, or trip over anything. He only thinks about Arthur every ten seconds instead of five. He's pretty proud of himself.

Then he gets a text just before lunch. It's from Gwen's number, and it contains two words.

_She's awake!_

He's been dreading this moment for nearly two weeks, but now that it's here, he has a sudden clarity of purpose. He knows, with a very strange sort of calm, what he has to do. It involves using the curse one last time, and he thinks of it like a bittersweet tribute. A goodbye. One of many he's about to make.

He shoves one of their order pads and a pen into his back pocket, and heads out.

When he gets to the hospital, it's a lot less chaotic then he thought. Gwen comes to where he's standing in the hall looking uncertain, and kisses him on the cheek. "She's dropped off again." At Merlin's concerned face, she amends. "Not back into coma. Just asleep. They'll come get us when she's up again." She takes in his clothes and his eau de cafe. "Sorry, did you come from work?"

Merlin nods. "Yeah, but it's okay. They've got me covered. This is more important."

"It is, isn't it."

Little does she know, Merlin thinks.

He hesitates, then brings an arm up and over her shoulders, gathering her close to him. She slides an arm around his waist easily, and he closes his eyes and leans his chin on her head softly, just breathing. Taking it all in one last time.

Then a nurse passes them, and motions into the room. "Go on, she's up again."

Merlin's heart seizes in his chest.

He takes a deep breath, and starts walking… but he doesn't make it further than the doorway. He can't. She's there, in the bed, like she has been for weeks, but she's awake, and Merlin can't think. She is frightfully pale, terribly tired looking, and gloriously conscious, blinking at them sleepily with her green eyes.

She meets his gaze, and her face shows no recognition.

He feels the rush of air as the others push past him. All of them, even Arthur, and damn it all if the hole inside Merlin's heart doesn't grow three sizes at that. They all clamour at her, reaching for the bed, and he feels it like a siren in his head, can almost see the flashing lights. He certainly feels as if he's about to be arrested. Making friends under false pretences. Falling in love under _doubly_ false pretences—

Then he feels Gwen tug on his arm, and he's suddenly at the foot of the bed. For a moment, he and Morgana just stare at each other. He can see the lines around her eyes again.

The clanging in his head comes to a sudden stop.

"Hello, Morgana," he says quietly, and not without warmth.

She blinks at him. "Er, hello."

"My name's Merlin," he continues personably. "And I think you should know, your family and friends think we're engaged."

The ensuing silence is so acute, Merlin is able to hear his own heartbeat.

He counts the beats, waiting.

One.

Two.

Three.

"What the _hell_?"

"You don't _know_ him?"

"You're not engaged?"

It's a cacophony, as he expected.

"Maybe she has amnesia!"

Well, that's enough of that. Merlin puts up a hand. "Everyone—" But nobody stops talking. "It's just that—"

He sighs. Finally, he claps his hands like a primary school teacher, and just yells. "People, if you'd actually bloody _listen_ for a moment, I'd give you all the answers!"

They shut up out of surprise, staring at him with identical looks on their faces.

"I'm not engaged to Morgana. The day I brought her in—that part is true—the nurse mistakenly thought I'd said I was her fiancé, and that was that, because once I met all of you I couldn't help but love you and I meant to tell you about an hundred thousand times but am a great dirty coward, and a liar, and none of you knew and I'm very, very sorry!"

There's a pause while he breathes.

Then Lance clears his throat. "Actually…" He looks at Merlin, a conflicted expression on his face. "I knew."

"You _did_?" Gwen says, her eyes huge and her brow furrowed.

Lance nods, looking a bit helpless. "I heard him—" He turns to Merlin purposefully. "I heard you talking to her one night, here."

Merlin closes his eyes for a moment, distressed, then opens them again when the words sink in. "But that was ages ago! That was the day after it happened!"

"Yes."

"And yet you never said anything, through all those dinners, all those… talks we had?"

"No."

Merlin feels completely lost. "I don't understand."

Lance looks at him, his gaze honest. Of course. "I knew you didn't wish them any harm. I saw that you were doing them good. And I saw that it was doing you good."

Gwaine snorts. "What, free dinners and some kisses on the cheek?"

Merlin flinches, but Gwen is first. "Don't be unkind," she says quietly. "Merlin, is this true?"

He feels his ears burn. He wants so badly for her to love him still. "Well, I can't speak to it doing good for anybody else. But when I met you lot, I had nobody. I lived alone in an apartment. Well, with a cat, but he's a royal pain, anyway, and I— I went to work, I came home."

He swallows, but forces himself to continue. "That day, in this room, I went from being completely alone to being a fiancé, a brother, and a friend. And you all—" He looks around at each of them. "Are—were—the best of those I could ever ask for." He smiles sadly. "You have _no_ bloody idea how lucky you are."

"Merlin," Gwen starts, her voice troubled.

"No, just let me say this. Lance, Gwen, you have something that only comes along once every thousand years. It's there for everyone to see, and it gives us all hope that someday we'll be even half as happy. Please don't forget that. And please, for the benefit of the rest of us less fortunate, enjoy it."

He turns to Gwaine, who has anger flashing in his eyes but doesn't turn away. "Gwaine. Tell her. Life is short and all that rot but also, you're a catch. If I wasn't hopelessly in love with your best mate over there—" He gestures at Arthur, and ignores Elena's gasp. "—I'd take you home myself."

The anger is gone. In fact, Gwaine reaches a hand out to clasp Merlin's arm. "Merlin, mate, you don't have to—"

"Yes," he says firmly. "I do. I just need to say these things, then I'll be on my way."

He turns, finally, to Arthur. His hands itch to reach out, to close the vast distance between them. But all he has are his words. "You keep working like this, seventy hours a week, doing whatever your father wants, you are going to burn out. You are going to burn out and it's going to be a spectacular explosion, to be sure, but I'm sure everyone here would rather see you in one piece. And they're your family, Arthur. They need you around to look after them."

Emotions ripple across Arthur's face. But before he can say anything, Merlin turns to Morgana. Her beautiful visage still makes his heart ache, but he can recognize it for what it is, now. "I'm so sorry about all this. But on the bright side, you were unconscious for most of it."

As soon as he said it, he wishes the words back into his mouth, but to his great shock, Morgana snorts. "You're amusing. I probably wouldn't've minded being engaged to you, actually."

"No one is going to be engaged to Morgana Pendragon," says a new voice, loudly, a woman's voice. Albeit a woman who's been smoking a packet a day her whole life.

They all turn to the doorway, where stands one Morgause. Merlin can practically see the fire burning off of her skin.

"My name is Morgause," she says, hands in fists and a look of dread challenge on her face, "and I am here to win Morgana back."

The room explodes anew.

"You're _who_?!"

"What d'you mean, _back_?"

"Morgana, have something to tell us?"

"Looks like it runs in the family…"

Merlin is temporarily forgotten. And he's alright with this. He's said his piece. They need to go on with their lives, now.

There's just one thing left to do.

He starts over to where Arthur is standing, watching the whole Morgause debacle with merely a twitch in his jaw. He knew, then, Merlin thinks. Interesting.

When Merlin reaches him, there's no change in his granite posture; Merlin knows he's being ignored, knows he deserves it, but is still gutted. He bucks up and touches Arthur's arm anyway, speaking to him as earnestly as he knows how. "And I'm sorry about your dreams."

That is enough for Arthur to look at him. "You're what now?"

"Sorry about your dreams," Merlin repeats, with quiet confidence. "Although I would think Wagner during sex would be your cup of tea. All very triumphant and megalomaniacal."

Arthur looks even angrier when gobsmacked. "How the _hell_ did you know that?"

"I made them happen." He holds up a hand when Arthur opens his mouth to speak. "Just trust me. It's something I can do." He pulls the pad and pen out of his back pocket and writes four words, which he then reads out loud. "Merlin's eyes flash gold for a moment."

He turns the paper so Arthur can see it. He waits a beat. He can't feel it, but he can see when Arthur freezes, his eyes wide and shocked. "You mean—"

"No," Merlin says, knowing what he's about to ask. "That's _all_ I did, the dreams. Well, and that just now, I suppose. But I didn't trick you into kissing me—which, by the way, was me, kissing you—or laughing at my jokes, or talking to me about… everything. And I wrote the dreams for _me_ , only for me, because I had met you, and I didn't know—"

He stops, his voice hitching, then barrels on. "I didn't know anything but that you got under my skin in a way no one else ever had. I was just trying to figure it out. I didn't mean for you to dream them too. I didn't mean for it to happen that way."

He smiles helplessly and indicates the whole room. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, but it's the best thing that could've possibly happened to me." He holds Arthur's gaze. "Please believe that."

Arthur looks at him, really looks at him, a muscle in his jaw jump-jump-jumping, and Merlin thinks he's going to speak, but he just can't bear it at the moment. He can't help it; he reaches out and touches Arthur's arm one last time. "Just— Take care, all right?"

And he walks away. He can hear Arthur saying his name, then Gwaine. Then Gwen, and his heart shatters the rest of the way.

But he doesn't look back.

On the bus on the way home, Merlin's staring blankly at his mobile when the date finally registers.

January 6th.

Epiphany.

He laughs until he's sick to his stomach.


	11. 10

"We cannot destroy kindred: our chains stretch a little sometimes, but they never break." ~Marquise de Sévigné

He's skives off work the next day. Sits on his couch with Eomer and Doyle and a lot of tea, and doesn't give a fig about anything.

Except for how he gives lots of figs about everything, but he's ignoring that. Freya blows up his phone with texts, and he ignores them, too, until he feels bad about her increasingly worried tone. _I'm not dead,_ he finally writes back. _I promise. They haven't killed me and stuffed the body somewhere posh. x_

The pen sits on his coffee table like a damn beacon. He doesn't look at it, doesn't touch it, but he thinks about it every moment. He waits, his stomach in knots, for a knock at the door.

It never comes.

A text from an unknown number comes, though, mid-afternoon.

_Come visit me._

Merlin contemplates answering, in case it is Morgana. But that would be weird, any way you slice it.

Or not, because ten minutes later—

_This is Morgana, by the way. Gwen gave me your number._

He stares at it. For a really long minute.

But before he can manage to do more than stare, there are four pings in quick succession:

_I just met you_

_This is crazy_

_But here's my number_

_TEXT ME BACK MAYBE._

Merlin laughs out loud. The sound startles him, but it positively terrifies Eomer, who leaps off the couch with a hiss and a glare.

"Oh, bugger off," Merlin calls after the cat's retreating form. "I'm allowed a laugh."

_Seriously, I'm horrifically bored and you should come entertain me._

He finally gives in. He's got no reason not to, he figures. It's just a text. _Don't they let you have a computer? And tv? And, clearly, your mobile?_

_There's only so many episodes of Miranda I can watch without killing myself._

He snorts. _True,_ he texts back.

_Besides, I almost married you. I should think I merit a visit._

_Good to know you're just as insufferable as your brother,_ Merlin types in, but he hesitates before hitting Send.

Then he does it anyway. The benefit to starting out a relationship with a preposterous situation is that pretty much anything is fair game.

_Which indicates you realise I won't stop text-bombing you until you get your skinny little arse down here._

Merlin's smiling. It feels a little strange on his face, after his morning of frowning at the homoeroticism he's finally noticing in Sherlock Holmes, but he's alright with it. _Insufferable_ , he types back, with a little angry emoticon for emphasis.

She is, unsurprisingly, not deterred. _I can put it on auto-text. Thousand in an hour. Watch me._

Merlin raises an eyebrow. _You'll be paying my phone bill, then._

The response is quick. _You have five minutes, Emrys._

He doesn't want to test it. _Alright, alright. God, you make Arthur seem like a squishy teddy bear._

_That's because he is. And now it's four._

__

On my way! Am I allowed to shower first, Your Highness?

No. I haven't had a proper bath in weeks. You get to suffer with me.

And all the people on the tube get to suffer, as well?

Nonsense. My driver is waiting outside your building.

Merlin blinks at the screen, then blinks up at the window. Then down at the screen again.

Then he jumps up off the couch and across the room, and stands there, his mouth open. For there is, indeed, Morgana's fancy car, with, presumably, a liveried man in it, sat outside his building. Probably illegally parked, in fact, if Merlin had to guess.

_Good to be the king, eh?_ he types with a smirk.

_It has its points. Now get in the bloody car._

_Yes, Highness._

He chucks the phone onto the couch, stretches, and heads to the bathroom. When he glances in the mirror, he notices that alongside sporting an amazing case of bedhead, he's still smiling.

It's not perfect, but it'll do.

She's not in Intensive Care anymore, and Merlin gets a bit lost trying to find her new room. When he gets there, she's tucked on her side and fast asleep.

And still gorgeous, despite the slightly greasy hair and lack of makeup. She'd look good in an unwashed turnip sack, he reckons.

He sighs, sitting in the chair beside her bed and wishing just for a moment he could go back to the simple feelings he'd once felt for her. Before. Before Arthur. He holds back a laugh, thinking of how his life is going to be forever sectioned into two pieces now: Before Arthur and After Arthur. Pre-Arthur and Post-Arthur. Before the Arthur-pocolypse and in the Arthur-topia following.

He's distracted from his thoughts by her rolling over. She blinks sleepily at him, and he feels himself smile softly.

"You been watching me sleep?" she asks, her voice a little squeaky.

He fetches water from the nightstand. "Oh, yes, for hours."

She takes a delicate sip, her nose wrinkling a little. "That's kind of dodgy, you know."

He shrugs and puts the water back. "I figured we were past that stage."

"Yes, you're probably right. I hear you've even been in my flat."

He twitches a little. "You need to fire your decorator."

"I broke up with her, actually."

Merlin snorts. "Why am I not surprised that Morgause picked that pointy black settee?"

They both have a chuckle. Then there's an awkward pause. Words bash into each other inside Merlin's head.

Finally, he just starts in on it. "Look, I'm really, really sorry."

She shakes her head. "You don't have to be. I get it. I do."

He gives her a sceptical look. "You do."

"Yes."

"You get it."

She rolls her eyes. "You should quit making assumptions, Merlin."

"Well, I—"

"I know, are just trying to be polite, and I adore you for it, but it's not easy being the late-found bastard child of a Tory posterboy."

"I assumed that much, actually," Merlin replies wryly.

"Yes, well, aren't you clever." Her soft look takes the heat away from the words. "And it— It took its toll. I couldn't do both. I couldn't be their lackey at work and look them in the face outside of it. I just couldn't."

"So you cut them directly?"

"Oh, it must seem so cold to you, mustn't it?"

Merlin shifts uncomfortably in his chair, shrugging a little. "Sorry, but yes. My family was taken away from me. I can't possibly fathom how one would come to the decision to _choose_ to get rid of them."

"Have you met my father?"

Merlin has to give her that. "Well, yes, but—"

"But Arthur. Is what you're going to say."

"Sorry, I don't—"

"Merlin, it's all right. I know Arthur's not his father, and our friends most definitely did not deserve to get caught in the crossfire. I know I was in the wrong to do what I did. But I can't take it back."

"You can fix it."

Morgana smoothes an invisible wrinkle in one of her blankets. "Here's where that's funny: My father came to visit me this morning."

"Oh, dear."

"No, no," Morgana protests, holding up a hand briefly. "It went fine. I will never be his favourite and he will never be mine, but we managed." She waves her hand. "That's not why he came to visit, though."

"No?"

"No. He came and he told me the most curious thing. He told me that Arthur has stepped down as VP."

Merlin feels it like a jolt. He tries not to show it. "Oh?"

"Oh, indeed," Morgana says in a knowing, slightly smug tone. "He's mentioned something about cashing in some of his stock options and opening up a fish market or some such nonsense."

"Bookshop," Merlin corrects absently, his mind whirring.

"Ah-hah!" Morgana says.

"I knew he wanted to, I just didn't—" He stops when he finally looks up and sees the grin on her face. "Oh, shut up," he grumbles, crossing his arms with a huff.

"Merlin," she says after a moment, her tone completely different. Merlin looks up. "If a person like my father can come round to giving the family business to his bastard daughter, then anything is possible. Don't give up on Arthur, yeah? He just needs… time."

"Right." Merlin swallows. "Time. Right." He hesitates, but figures what the hell. "What if I need time, too?"

Her face softens. "Oh, Merlin. Of course you need time. But you need him."

"I don't need anybody."

"Merlin."

"Yeah, alright."

"And it's not like I don't know the feeling."

Merlin looks at her, his brain ticking. "Oh," he says after a moment. "Gwaine?"

"Yes, Gwaine."

"So it's not as unrequited as he claims?"

Morgana has the grace to look a little ashamed. "He thinks it's unrequited. We've known each other so long, I just don't know what I'd do if I lost him." She's gone pale again, her eyes wide. "He's perfect, he's genuinely perfect, and he scares me to death."

Merlin can relate. Just a little. "Hence Morgause."

"Yes. Well, no. I've been with other women. But that one was a particularly bad idea."

"Her cat was very cranky."

Morgana laughs. "Oh, so you met Sunshine, then?"

"Sunshine," Merlin says with a laugh. "Of course. Yes. We're acquainted." At her curious look, he explains. "I brought you here unconscious, shenanigans happened, they gave me your things, I took them home, found the cat food, I'm a sucker for cats." He looks at his hands, feeling his ears heat up at the memory. "That was the day it all started, really. So I suppose I have you and your austere flat to thank."

"The day what started?" She knows the answer, Merlin's sure of it, but all's fair.

He takes a deep breath. "Arthur admitted he'd spotted I was gay when he met me. And I started thinking about it, because… well…"

"Because he's Arthur."

"Yeah. So… the dreams started that night."

"Oh yes, the dreams," Morgana says, eyeing him. "Arthur says you have a …skill."

Merlin flinches. "Curse, more like. And I can't believe he told you."

"Well, he didn't so much as tell me. Gwaine got him good and soused and got the whole story out of him, then told the rest of us." She looks at him eagerly. "Do it for me."

Merlin shakes his head instantly. "Absolutely not. I'm done with all that."

"You did it for Arthur."

"No, I did it for _me_ , originally, and it wasn't supposed to affect any one else. I'm no Rasputin. Been there, done that." She raises an eyebrow. He sighs. "Long story, someday over a pint I'll tell you."

"Oh, goodie!" she says, her eyes lighting up. "That means we're going to be friends."

Merlin scratches his neck awkwardly, even as he feels some warmth sneak into his chest. "Don't you think that'd be a little—tasteless?"

"Well, sure, but do we care?"

"I rather assumed you would."

"And what have we said about making assumptions?" she says pointedly, an eyebrow up.

Merlin sits, thinks of glitter waterfalls and lazy mornings. "Yeah."

As if she can sense the turn his thoughts have taken, she speaks quietly. "What are you going to do, if not rewrite the ending?"

He chuckles dryly. "I have no bloody clue."

"Now, I don't think that's quite true, is it?"

Merlin looks at his hands. "No."

"What, then?"

"I want to be—be me, be in love, for real. But I'm terrified," he says quietly. "I don't want to be The Other. I don't want to be part of the ten percent. I don't want to have to give up—everything. Give up all the ideas I had about normal and decent and… and my future."

"Merlin. If anyone in this whole wide world is normal, and decent, it's Arthur."

"I know, but that's not—"

She reaches for his hand, and he's startled into silence. "I know, love. I know. It's not the same. Not even nearly. But it's enough."

"Is it?"

"Yes." She smiles. "And you know it is." She taps his chest, over his heart. "Right here."

His left hand clenches, and the picture of the pristine pen on his coffee table flashes through his mind.

Unfortunately, she notices. "What's that?" she asks, gesturing at his hand.

Merlin closes his eyes for a brief moment, then looks at her frankly. "That's a manifestation of my writer's block," he says. The words taste bitter on his tongue.

"I see," she says, and she completely does, which is annoying. "Why aren't you writing?"

"The curse," he says simply.

She assesses him, and he suddenly can see how she's a wickedly talented businesswoman. "But that only works if you read the words aloud, right?"

"Yes?" Merlin's not sure where she's going with this.

"But not when anybody else reads them, even aloud?"

He squints as he tries to think back to the last time his mum read one of his things. "No, I don't think so."

"So just keep your gob shut and you should be fine, yeah?"

"Yeah, but…" Merlin stops. He's never thought of it that way, really. 

"Hand me my purse," she says then, more of a command than a request but Merlin finds himself acquiescing without a thought. She is in recovery still, after all, he reasons.

He watches as she gets out her chequebook and a pen. "What are you—"

"Don't even think about protesting, Merlin." She finishes writing, tears the cheque off with a flourish, and hands it to him. "I want to see you out of that crap coffee shop job and into the published world. Consider it a loan, consider it payment for services rendered, whatever."

"Morgana…"

"But realise if you try to pay me back I'll just sack it away for when you have kids."

"Morgana—"

"Because a bookshop! Heavens. I don't know what he's thinking, but I'm sure you'll be skint for a while."

"Morgana!"

She finally stops and looks at him. "What?" 

"What on _earth_ service have I done for _you_?!"

Morgana shakes her head and clicks her tongue. "Merlin Emrys," she says quietly, reaching over and holding his hand in a vice grip. "You gave me something I could never have got back by myself. You gave me back my family."

He doesn't really remember the ride home. Once he gets there, he puts the cheque on the coffee table next to the pen.

He spends the next hour sitting on his couch, staring at the two items he'd never expected to have in his life, sat next to the globe he always had, and thinking.

Finally, fucking finally, he opens up his laptop, and he starts to type.

In the end, it's not that big of a thing. It's a cheque in the savings account, a two week notice sent in, and a blog.

Everyone has to start somewhere, though, and for Merlin, this is beginning enough.

_Diary of a Wizard_ , the header says cheekily, with a poorly drawn doodle of a paunchy old guy with a long beard and a pointed hat.

The first and only entry thusfar is a lot of word vomit, and Merlin knows it, but he's absurdly proud of it anyway. It's an artful, embellished, acerbic retelling of what he's come to call The Winter of Our Discontent, using pseudonyms and a bit of a twist here and there, and it is sure to entertain anyone who stumbles across it.

It entertains the hell out of Merlin, at least.

He skims it again, one last time. And slows as he reaches the end. His heart still pounds. But he no longer feels sick to his stomach.

_I do hope that she and I stay close friends. Besides the fact that I now owe her several thousand pounds, she'll always have a place in my heart… as the last woman I ever loved._

_For I, dear world, am a homosexual._

_And, more importantly, in dire need of a desk._

He hesitates, briefly, then emails the link to Gwaine.

That night, he dreams.

He dreams of being in his kitchen, Wagner playing, coriander waiting to be chopped. He's alone. But he's got a shelf full of books with his name on them, and a tiny rainbow flag stuck in a houseplant

And he is content.

The two weeks fly by. Merlin hears from all of them, Gwen first, then the rest, except for Arthur. They hint around it, give him casual news points about Arthur's life, but nothing specific, and nothing to give Merlin any sort of hope.

Which is alright, Merlin insists. He's got a blog, a burgeoning habit of going to that club by Freya's on free nights, and now half a manuscript written.

He tries not to dwell on anything else.

The shop is incredibly busy on Merlin's last day. So saying goodbye to his co-workers is quick and painful, like ripping off a plaster.

Freya doesn't even allow him to say goodbye when she leaves after her early shift. She kisses him on the cheek and whispers, "I'm proud of you. Ring me sometime."

He has to swallow back tears.

"You'll come round once in a while, right?" Jenny looks surprisingly morose about the whole thing, and gives him a huge hug before she leaves for lunch.

"Yeah, course. I'm not dying, you know, I'm just—"

"Going to have a great adventure."

"—well, something like that—"

"And be a successful author."

"—oh God don't jinx it—"

"But all that doesn't mean we won't miss you."

He hugs her a little more tightly after that.

When the door bell tinkles behind her, the shop is nearly empty: some students and a lonely looking businessman sit quietly; George is in the back doing stock work, leaving Merlin with an empty counter.

He tunes out the door chimes and sets about building one last sugar packet pyramid. Just for old times' sake.

He's nearly done, too, when suddenly a small object barrels into it, knocking the whole thing over. "No!" he exclaims. "That one was my best ever!"

He picks up the offending object and holds it up loftily in front of him. "Whoever did that has just ruined my last and best coffee-related artistic endeavour—"

He sees the ring's signet and its owner at the same time.

The Pendragon. The Pendragon is on the ring and Arthur— Arthur is standing in front of the counter, smirking, looking scared out of his wits but determined to pretend otherwise. So, infuriating, as usual.

And all of his friends— _their_ friends—the best friends anyone could ever wish for—are standing behind him, grinning like loons.

"Merlin," Arthur starts, his tone very serious.

Merlin's heart is jumping about in his chest. "Oh, hello," he says, a little bit cheekily, though his hand is clutching the ring as tightly as he'd ever clutched a pen. "Fancy a coffee?"

"Merlin…"

"Customers only, you know. I'll have to chuck you out if you don't buy anything."

Arthur narrows his eyes. Merlin blinks at him innocently, feeling his mouth twitch but tamping the laughter down.

Finally Arthur's lips quirk up, and he reaches for his wallet. Merlin watches as a packet of after-coffee mints and a fiver land on the counter. "There."

"Alright," Merlin says solemnly. But he can't stand it for very long, and nods his head for Arthur to come closer.

Arthur does, and they're both so naturally drawn into the other that Merlin finds himself leaning across the counter. His fingers _ache_ to just reach out and grab, take. "Hi."

"Hi."

"Go on, then!" Gwaine's voice shouts impatiently. "Snog his face off!"

Merlin huffs out a laugh, and can feel the breath on his face as Arthur does the same. "Want something?" Merlin asks quietly.

"For you to wear that?"

Arthur nods down at the ring; it's fallen down around Merlin's thumb, where it fits perfectly. "This gaudy thing?"

"Morgana's already promised to wear an outlandish hat to the ceremony."

"Knew I could count on her for something." Merlin grins. "Yeah, I suppose I could do. Love you, you prat."

Arthur lets out the breath he was holding and grins back. "Love you too, you idiot."

"Good. Now that we've got that squared away—" Merlin considers his options for about half a second, then decides to hell with it. It's his last day, it's his gorgeous man.

He'll write his story the way he wants it to end.

He hoists himself up on the counter and slides right into Arthur's arms.

Arthur, for all his patrician poise, is nonplussed. "You don't—We're in public, you don't have to—"

Merlin feels the grin on his face and loves this man more than anything. "This isn't public." He looks past Arthur at their beaming (and sniffling, in Elena's case) friends. "This is family."

Arthur's face lights up so brightly, so thoroughly— It's almost as if Merlin's just given him the world. "Yes, it is."

"Now shut up and kiss me, you magnificent bastard."

And Arthur, for once, does just as commanded.


	12. Epilogue

"Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family. Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one." ~Jane Howard

_There are several ways in which dreams do not at all predict reality,_ Merlin types from the desk in Arthur's study. The desk which Merlin calls his in the gorgeous house that Arthur calls theirs. Merlin protests, but they both know it's just noise, and he won't be re-signing the lease on his old place.

_1) Wart is extremely loud in bed. EXTREMELY._

"Oi," Arthur calls in from the next room. "I can hear your fingers. It's that filthy blog again, isn't it?"

Merlin grins, but doesn't reply. And sure enough, Arthur lopes into the room and leans over his shoulder. "What are you on about this time?" He skims it. Merlin just waits, grinning. "You are such a lousy fiancé."

"That's not what you said last night," Merlin replies, his fingers moving again.

_2) Glitter really is like the herpes of craft supplies. But feather boas have their uses._

Arthur groans; Merlin can picture the eyeroll. "Must you?"

"I'm afraid I must."

"My father might read this."

Merlin snorts. "What are the chances of that happening?"

"Very high. Gwaine."

"Ah, well, yes, there's that." He turns and kisses whatever part of Arthur he can reach, briefly, which turns out to be the side of his chin. "But do you really mind?"

Arthur shrugs. His hand comes round Merlin's neck and settles at his jaw, stroking absently. "I suppose not."

_3) I did not magically know how to give expert blow jobs._

"Well, that one's certainly true."

"Bugger off."

"Just contributing my informed opinion."

Merlin turns his head again. "I _am_ learning."

"Oh, I know you are." He can see Arthur's lips twitching with laughter.

Merlin represses a grin himself, instead casually reaching up and poking at Arthur's hip. "And I'm getting better."

"I suppose," Arthur says, straightening and looking down at Merlin with a mischievous glint in his eye. Merlin's heart kicks up a notch. His tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth and he watches Arthur's eyes track the movement.

"You suppose?" Merlin casually reaches up and tugs at Arthur's jeans, navigating the fastenings easily.

"Well," Arthur says, swallowing, as his hands wander into Merlin's hair, "practice makes perfect."

"Yes," Merlin says as he delves into Arthur's pants, trying not to seem too eager but damn he has a fondness for this. "It does."

Arthur exhales as Merlin kisses the tip of him. "And you've a long way to go, young sir."

Merlin grins against steel-soft skin, then darts his tongue out. "And you're going to assist on this journey?" he says.

Arthur grins down at him, his face flushed and his eyes bright. "I'll be there every step of the way," he says. And it's only a bit cheekily. And Merlin's so in love it stuns him.

_4)_ , Merlin will write later. Much later. _Most important of all: Despite what one might think, it's the messes that make life wonderful._

** fin **

  


**now go give the artist some love for her _amazing_ work at her post [here](http://bizarrefables.livejournal.com/9299.html)**   


**Author's Note:**

>  **Sources/Inspirations/Etc** : _While You Were Sleeping_ obvs, _In & Out_, _The Book of Daniel_ , _The Dark Crystal_ , Ani Difranco, _The Labyrinth_ , _Snatch_ , _The Princess Bride_ , Mel Brooks, _Amahl & the Night Visitors_, ['Least Complicated'](https://www.box.com/s/jeffkz5zurbukad2dviw) by the Indigo Girls, and, as always, Aaron Sorkin.
> 
>  **Thank yous** : Le jazzy_peaches. I can't even describe how great she is at being supportive. Probably because she teaches kindergarten and I tend to whine like a five year old. tourdefierce, whose encouragement re: coming out made this story what it is. The rest of my absurdly amazing beta/Brit/pre-reading team, kim47, hardticket, & queasy_mouse; their help was immeasurable. The folks in **#paperlegends**. The superhero mod of paperlegends, the_muppet. ideaspace  & janice_lester for the research assistance. Any remaining mistakes are my own poor life choices. And really, it takes a village to write a big bang, so thank you _all_. ♥


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